


Winter's Chill (lies Quiet on the Fellfield)

by Salvia_G



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bilbo, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Slash, unrequited/unacknowledged love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins stays in Erebor.  He wants to be left alone to mourn Thorin Oakenshield and to assist his friends in preparing Erebor for the Dwarves who are returning to the Lonely Mountain.  It's the only way he can honour Thorin, who he came to respect, then admire, then love during their quest to reclaim the Dwarves' home.</p>
<p>But Bilbo doesn't get what he wished for.</p>
<p>As winter falls upon the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo is unwillingly drawn into the political manoeuvring between the Dwarves and their neighbours.  The Elves and Men and Dwarves are fighting over the treasures Smaug hoarded for seventy years; and there's a terribly rude young Dwarf making a nuisance of himself when Bilbo goes to the Durins' tomb; and the new king under the mountain, Dáin Ironfoot, has started popping up everywhere Bilbo goes.</p>
<p>Bebother and confusticate the lot of them.</p>
<p>Especially Dáin.  He's a poor replacement for Thorin, and Bilbo has no plans to forgive him for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time coming. Nearly two years ago, I wrote a (very) short story in which Bilbo, mourning Thorin, remains in Erebor for several months after the Battle of Five Armies. During this time, Dáin Ironfoot falls in love with him, but Bilbo can't forget Thorin. Dáin's love remains unrequited. [_King under the Mountain_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/752308) wasn't a particularly widely read story, but I love it as if it were my own sweet child (well, it is! All my stories are dear sweet children to me!)
> 
> And a few of its readers suggested that they would be interested in seeing more Dáin/Bilbo--maybe even requited Dáin/Bilbo.
> 
> The idea that such a story might be out there stuck with me, but at the time it was just a tiny seed of an idea, and I was immersed in writing _A Glittering Abyss_. The seed never germinated.
> 
> Fast forward to the spring of 2014: I signed up for Hobbit Big Bang, and I had more of an idea where a story in which Dáin and Bilbo fall in love might go. I decided to give it a try. Writing it was going well, mostly, when a few things happened. I hit a point where _Winter's Chill_ bogged down. I had a personal revelation which sent me into a RL tailspin.
> 
> And I saw _Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier_.
> 
> I was immediately sucked into a new fandom, but what _really_ killed _Winter's Chill_ (and every other Hobbit story I had going at the time) was [a Cap 2 story idea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1801759) that would not let go. I didn't have any idea how long the story would be or how deep my Cap 2 obsession would go, and the idea that nine months would go by without my posting a single piece of Hobbit anything...
> 
> I would never have believed it. But here we are, December 2014, and it's true.
> 
> I've never stopped loving Hobbit, though. I've been thinking about those poor neglected stories more and more as BOTFA approaches. And a couple days ago, determamfidd (I don't have to tell you to go read [Sansûkh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528), do I?) and an anon had a conversation on tumblr about how underappreciated poor Dáin Ironfoot was...and I thought, _I have really got to finish that damn Dáin story, and it'd be nice if I did it before I see the third Hobbit movie b/c that will be sure to mess me up._
> 
> So I took a look at it...
> 
> and it was closer to finished than I thought it was...
> 
> It feels pretty good to be back. I love you, dear hearts.

***

Bilbo would like to say he didn’t enjoy arguing with Gandalf, but as it was about the only thing that could rouse him from the stupor of grief in which he lived in the days after the Battle of Five Armies, enjoyment seemed as good a word as any.

Bilbo had intended to leave the Lonely Mountain after the funerals. His bag was packed and ready, in fact, with Gandalf waiting at the Gates, when he found he could not do it. He didn’t know what the newly crowned King under the Mountain would think—whether the forgiveness Thorin had extended Bilbo on his deathbed would mean anything to Dáin Ironfoot, or whether his sentiments mirrored Thorin’s previous wrath.  He only knew that he could not go.  He would hide if he had to, but he could not leave Erebor yet.

When he told Gandalf, the wizard smiled at him, sad and wise as ever.

“I have seen great changes in you over the course of this journey,” he said, “but I never thought to see you so changed as to refuse to return to your home.”

I am not refusing to return to Bag End,” Bilbo said testily. “I am _choosing_ not to return _yet_. I think the difference should be apparent.”

Gandalf nodded and said nothing further.  Bilbo did press a few letters on him and extracted a promise that he would see them delivered promptly, not stuck in his pocket to be forgotten until next he needed a Hobbit for burglary or some other adventuresome business.  Then there was nothing left to do but hug Gandalf tightly and wish him safe travels.

“I shall return to Erebor within the year,” Gandalf told him, “should you be ready to return to the Shire at that time, and wish company for the journey.”

“I am sure I will be,” Bilbo answered.  He stood at the great Gates to the mountain city and waved until he couldn’t see the wizard any longer, then stayed at the Gates to watch the sun set.  He did think wistfully of his home—of his comfortable chair, and his garden; but as the sun set the spectre of Bag End faded and he turned away from the Gates at last. It was time to seek out the other ghosts that haunted him.

The vault where the tombs lay was deep within the mountain, but for all that it seemed the heart of Erebor to Bilbo.  The city above swarmed with Dwarves working to repair the damage Smaug had caused, but that turmoil didn’t touch this still place.

When he went to the tombs, Bilbo always came to Kíli or Fíli first. He needed that small space to prepare himself before he proceeded to Thorin.

Fíli he had known least of all; but Bilbo had loved all the Company, and he had appreciated Fíli’s calm confidence almost as much as he had admired his dedication to his brother.

He was glad that Fíli had not had to watch Kíli fall.  He could not have borne it.

And Kíli—Kíli had poked fun and laughed at him at first.  He and Bilbo were not much alike.  But Kíli had also stood to defend him without hesitation, and for his part he had come to realise that Kíli meant no harm with his teasing. 

Over the course of their journey, Bilbo had learnt that Kíli’s love for Fíli was just as strong as his brother’s for him; only as the younger brother, Kíli hadn’t worn that love as visible worry the way Fíli had.  Brave, reckless, laughing Kíli—Kíli was not made to cry, and seeing him weeping over his brother’s body…Bilbo had been greatly saddened but not surprised to learn that he had not survived the battle.  Neither of the brothers would have seemed whole without the other by his side.

Some nights Bilbo could only stand at Thorin’s tomb for a moment before fleeing, but this night—in another life he would be riding for the Shire at Gandalf’s side, but even dead Thorin possessed his heart.  Bilbo wasn’t sure when or how that had happened. Neither did he know how to quit Erebor without leaving it behind, transforming him into a hollowed-out husk of a Hobbit.

He liked that:  Hollowed-out Husk of a Hobbit.  In happier times he would have laughed at himself.  Before this journey he had been so accepting of his too-comfortable existence that he hadn’t known his heart was empty as dust; and now that he had learnt it, it didn’t matter.  It no longer belonged to him.  He was empty through and through, only a few frozen chunks of sorrow and anger left to rattle around inside a scooped-clean shell.

The anger was the reason his visits were so fleeting at times. Mostly he mourned; but sometimes he was very angry with Thorin, and Thorin’s death had done nothing to diminish that anger.  Perhaps if Thorin had lived, they might have had a great stropping fight and Bilbo would have recovered faster from it.  But Thorin had died, and though he had asked Bilbo’s forgiveness and Bilbo had given it…

He had forgiven Thorin; how could he not, when Thorin lay dying before him? He could never have denied Thorin that comfort.  But he remained angry with him:  for losing himself, and sending Bilbo away, and especially for dying.  He thought he was likely to be angry for some time to come.  Every time he came to Thorin’s tomb to mourn him and his nephews, his anger was renewed; and Bilbo went to them every evening without fail.

That evening—the evening that he should have left for the Shire with Gandalf—that evening at the tomb was his first meeting with Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain.  He had seen him before the battle and at the funeral (though Bilbo had no attention to spare for him at either), but they had never met.  Bilbo had no interest in the Lord of the Iron Hills, who had denied Thorin aid in the beginning and come to him only when the Dragon was gone, prepared to fight Men and Elves that Thorin might not have to part with a single gold piece.

But this night, as Bilbo made his retreat to the great vault in which Thorin and his heirs had been buried, Dáin was already there.  Bilbo could not avoid him.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, and bowed; then he hurried to the far side of Kíli’s memorial.  Heartily he wished the new king away.  Dáin made him ill-at-ease.  He couldn’t cry the way he wanted to with a strange Dwarf as witness, either. Dáin bowed his own head in acknowledgement, with a calm “Master Hobbit,” before retreating, so Bilbo had only to be grateful he was gone before succumbing to his grief.

Dáin was not the only Dwarf who ventured to the crypt to pay his respects to Thorin and his sister-sons, but Bilbo saw few of them.  Most Dwarves preferred to come during the day, and he was not aware of any who came as often as he.  He didn’t think it meant that they didn’t honour Thorin; Dwarvish ways were different, and Bilbo’s mourning would have been considered excessive and worrying in the Shire as well.

None of the Company tried to stop him, though, merely ensured that his time was occupied during the day; and he was grateful that they accepted even as they worried.

Perhaps a week after the battle a young Dwarf from the Iron Hills began to join Bilbo in his evening vigils.  Bilbo was aware of his scrutiny, but he took no notice of it; many of the Dwarves stared when they saw Bilbo, and only about half because they had never seen a Hobbit before.  His reputation had preceded him—though the Company had done their best to emphasise what Bilbo had done to help the quest and to paint Bilbo’s actions with the Arkenstone as positively as they could, still gossip flew under the mountain quite as quickly as over the paths of the Shire.  He was aware that not all the eyes upon him were friendly. He ignored what he could.

After a score of Bilbo’s evenings had passed in company with this Dwarven youth, however, Bilbo had begun to feel that continuing to ignore him was as bad-mannered as the relentless staring.  So the next evening as he arrived to find his fellow pilgrim at the side of Kíli’s tomb, he approached him.

“Good evening,” he said.  The young Dwarf nodded curtly but did not answer.  _Well_ , Bilbo thought.  _I wasn’t wrong to think him rude, was I._   He had fulfilled the requirements of etiquette, he believed; Bilbo would not bother himself any further regarding the rude fellow.  Still, he did not retreat.  He needn’t respond to churlishness, but he refused to allow it to drive him away.  Resolutely he turned away from the Dwarf to regard Kíli’s sarcophagus. But despite his decision to avoid speaking to the young Dwarf, he couldn’t help but comment on a subject that had been bothering him for some time.

“It’s not a very good likeness, is it?” he asked.  He didn’t truly expect an answer, but it seemed his question stirred his companion to respond when his greeting had not.

“Dwarf artisans not good enough for your exacting tastes?” he asked.

“Oh no,” Bilbo said.  “I was amazed at how quickly they were able to work, and the detail of the carvings is quite impressive.  No, I suppose I meant more that stone is a poor medium for this.”

“Dwarves are returned to the stone from which we came when we die,” the Dwarf said. “But I guess Hobbits don’t care about the traditions of other peoples.”

Bilbo turned away from Kíli’s stone visage to regard the young Dwarf. He was tall—as tall as Kíli had been.  His beard—shorn short in what Bilbo had learned was a sign of mourning— and his hair were a gingery blond.  In a Hobbit, Bilbo would have called it ‘strawberry,’ but that didn’t seem appropriate for a Dwarf. Every Dwarf in Erebor other than those of the Company was from the Iron Hills, so that wasn’t such a huge leap to make.  This Dwarf seemed to make a point of it, however; beyond the iron shoes and iron-studded leather jerkin, the beads in his hair and clasps on his braids were plain iron as well. His face struck Bilbo mostly as sullen—it was so screwed up in disdain that Bilbo couldn’t comment as to the arrangement of his features.  Perhaps it was intended to scare Bilbo away, but he could not find this one young Dwarf intimidating after all he had been through.

“It is a shame, then, that Kíli was not solemn and unyielding as stone rather than the cheerful spirit he was,” Bilbo said tartly.  “Then the stone needn’t suffer from an inability to capture that liveliness—the brightness of his eye, the expressiveness of his face—for he wouldn’t have had any.  And if I were you, I might consider whether the face I was making was one I wanted future generations of Dwarves to remember me by, for you’ve quite the ugliest sneer I’ve seen on anyone outside a Mountain Troll.  Good day.”  With that Bilbo turned away from the youth.  He would waste no more of his time or attention on such a lout.

He was annoyed to find that he was unable to regain his contemplative mood after this set-to, so he took his leave not long after.  He refused to be driven away entirely, however; so the next day he returned at his usual time.  The uncouth Dwarf had not yet arrived, but he entered the vault a quarter of an hour after Bilbo.  After a brief glance up from his place at Thorin’s side, Bilbo returned his gaze to the stone sarcophagus.

His studied reserve was ignored.  Bilbo should have known a Dwarf wouldn’t shy away from a fight.

“You knew them less than a year,” the Dwarf said.  “What right do you have to usurp the place of others who come to mourn them, who knew them longer?”

“I do not believe I usurp anyone’s place,” Bilbo replied without looking away from Thorin’s tomb.  He was here for the fallen king under the mountain, not this boor.  “Many mourn them, and I don’t hold any particular place of honour among them—if such a thing existed.  As for my right—“  And here he couldn’t stop himself from glaring at the young Dwarf, “The right to feel sorrow at another’s passing is not one that is bestowed from on high.  There is no test to pass.  Any and all may mourn for these three—I believe many do who knew them not at all. Do you begrudge everyone who regrets their loss?”

“They were the last of Durin’s royal line.  Every Dwarf has reason to mourn for them, whether or not they had ever met,” the Dwarf said.

“Perhaps,” Bilbo said.  “You must forgive me if I don’t find that particularly compelling.  I mourn their deaths for who they were, not because a different head wears Erebor’s crown.”

“That’s not what I mean—“ the Dwarf began, but Bilbo had had enough. He interrupted him sharply.

“I understand your meaning full well,” he said.  “You mean that because I am a Hobbit, my grief can’t run as deep as a Dwarf’s.  It doesn’t matter the way a Dwarf’s matters.  Because I am a Hobbit, I can’t possibly have understood or known them as well as any Dwarf at all, even one of the slightest acquaintance. And I imagine there is more: because I am a Hobbit, I don’t belong under the mountain; and you’d like to see my back yesterday if not sooner. You aren’t the first Dwarf who has discounted me and I’m sure you won’t be the last, but I don’t care what you think of me any more than I care for your surly manners. If you don’t want to see me, may I suggest you pay your respects at another time of day?  Then you won’t have to be insulted by this Hobbit’s temerity.”

“I’ll come when I like,” the Dwarf said.  “If you don’t want to see me, _you_ come at another time of day.  Or better, go back to your hole in the dirt.  Because you’re right:  you’re not needed or wanted under the mountain.”

“You’re wrong there,” Bilbo retorted.  “You may not want me here, but each and every surviving member of the Company has exhorted me to stay as long as I wish.  You will understand that I value the opinion of those who were valiant enough and loyal enough to join Thorin in his perilous quest over that of a puling coward who came only lately.  You weren’t even among those who fought in the Battle of Five Armies, were you?  Don’t you dare tell me I don’t belong here.”

The young Dwarf turned red and leapt to his feet to loom over Bilbo. For a moment Bilbo thought he might strike him, but he only glared furiously before whirling and leaving the crypt.  _Good_ , Bilbo thought.  _Good riddance._ He fumed by Thorin’s sarcophagus some minutes more before he left that night, and when he did leave he returned not to his solitary rooms but sought out some of the Company.  Bofur and Nori often played dice of an evening, or perhaps Dori might share a cup of tea with him.  He needed the reminder that he was valued and wanted by some of the Dwarves of Erebor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the third movie last night, and I'm still processing...
> 
> But I want to reiterate that this story was written before BOTFA was released. Don't expect this fic to comply with movie canon. Book canon--yes, as much as possible.
> 
> And please avoid spoilers in the comments? Until, say, February 2015? Anyone who hasn't seen the film at that point shouldn't realistically expect to be able to avoid spoilers unless they avoid the internet entirely.

***

Bilbo went to Erebor’s library in the morning.  He didn’t have the skills the Dwarves had for building, nor was he strong enough to do much even if he did, so he looked for other ways to help return Erebor to its former glory.  The library was comfortable for him, though it was usually a solitary endeavour.  But he had hardly been at work for more than an hour when Ori found him.

“Dáin has directed Balin to negotiate Bard’s fourteenth of the profits with the Men, and Balin asks if you would mind joining him,” Ori said.

“I’d be happy to,” Bilbo replied. “I haven’t any idea what use I’ll be, but I’ll come.”  He set aside the parchment he had been cleaning and followed Ori out of the library.

“Ah, Bilbo!  Welcome!” Balin said upon his arrival to the daunting chamber in which the negotiations with Bard would take place. Erebor’s architecture often made Bilbo feel very small; but he could see the sense of such grand scale at times—in the throne room, for example, or the Hall of Kings.  In this room, given the task before them (which as far as Bilbo could see required only a table of a size approximate to that of his dinner table back in Bag End and the accompanying chairs), Bilbo thought it quite ridiculous.

Bard was accompanied by the Master of Esgaroth, that Man’s assistant, and a roughly garbed, long-faced Man Bilbo hadn’t met before.  In addition, two Wood Elves were seated at the table, though they didn’t seem to be part of the Men’s contingent.  He wondered what role they thought to play in this.  A Dwarf of the Iron Hills—again, one unknown to Bilbo—sat with Balin, as did Glóin.  Ori took a seat somewhat behind Balin rather than at the table, and Bilbo gathered he was there to record the progress of negotiation rather than participate in the conference himself.

Balin gestured Bilbo to seat himself in the middle of the table between the Dwarves on one side and the Men and Elves on the other.  _I’ll be directly in the line of fire if they start lobbing things,_ Bilbo thought. _Bother_.

Although the Dwarves and the Men were now nominal allies, the atmosphere in the room was as tense as it had been before the Battle, when Dáin had sat down with Elves and Men for the first time. Bilbo looked to Balin to begin, but he only smiled genially in return.  Bilbo waited, but still Balin only smiled.  Bilbo looked around the table.  All of them—Dwarves and Men and Elves alike—all of them were watching him expectantly. _Confusticate and bebother all Dwarves, and Men, and Elves too_ , he thought.  He turned back to glare at Balin, who seemed quite unperturbed.  _Fine_.

“How shall a one-fourteenth share of the profits be determined?” he asked.  “Surely we cannot wait for every piece of gold in Smaug’s horde to be counted?” 

“No,” Balin said.  Apparently he had only waited for Bilbo to raise the subject, for now he went on and on about weights and measures and probabilities and percentages until Bilbo was quite lost (as were the rest of them, he suspected—except perhaps the other Dwarves).

Finally Bard interrupted him. “We want only what belonged to Men before, the wealth Smaug stole from Dale.”

“Unless, of course, the Hobbit’s one-fourteenth share exceeds that amount,” the Master said. “Bard traded the Arkenstone for a full one-fourteenth, after all.  And it is only right, as we Men suffered terrible trials when Smaug attacked. We’ll take the full fourteenth, delivered as expeditiously as possible.”

Bilbo glared at the Master. “Which I gave _him_ in the first place, if you please,” he said.  “I think you are being treated very fairly indeed.  At any rate, how do you expect the Dwarves to distinguish between what was there before and what was taken from Dale? Do you think it a task to be completed in an afternoon?” he asked.

“How hard can it be?” the Master responded.

“I wouldn’t be able to do it,” Bilbo said.  “I shouldn’t know where to begin.  I don’t believe you have any idea of the scope of the problem.  Smaug did not leave neat piles of gold sorted by source or date of acquisition behind him.”

“It isn’t easy to know where one coin or another comes from; that’s true,” Balin said.  “But one pound of gold is the equivalent of another pound of gold in the end.  I would ask instead if perhaps there were unique pieces taken from Dale that you can describe for us.  We will do our best to find them for you to include in your share.”

Bard regarded Balin suspiciously. Bilbo huffed.

“If it were me, I shouldn’t have promised anything of the sort,” he said.  “You cannot imagine the bother it will be.  Don’t frown so!  You have treated with Balin before; you know him to be fair and honest.”

“I know him to be a liar,” Bard said. “Going to visit kin in the Iron Hills, was he?”

“And how will we know that we have been given our full fourteenth?” the Master asked.  “The Dwarves will skint on the measure, and the Hobbit will skim off the top.”

“It isn’t _your_ fourteenth,” Bilbo said.  “I made a deal with Bard, not you.  I’m not entirely sure why you’re present, but at any rate:  you will simply have to trust us.”  He returned his attention to Bard.

“You showed that you trust the Dwarves,” Bilbo said, “when you lay the Arkenstone on Thorin’s breast, to rest with him forever.  I suggest you continue to do so.  For my part I have made no claim on the treasure but that it be set aside for you. I am sure I don’t begrudge it to the Men who have lost so much to Smaug, and in particular to the Man who killed him.”  He turned his attention back to Balin.

“And I will have to trust you as well,” he said, “for I haven’t the slightest idea what you were blathering on about. So as I see it, this is the only question that remains:  when? How long until the amount of the share may be determined and delivered?”

Before Balin could answer, one of the Elves spoke for the first time.  He seemed bored, and while Bilbo generally admired and quite liked Elves, the supercilious look on this one’s face set his teeth on edge. The other Elf was blank-faced; Bilbo couldn’t read him.

“That is not the only question that remains,” he said.  “No compensation for the Elves has been discussed.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “You may work out what Bard will share with you from his fourteenth as you like.  It’s none of the Dwarves’ business.”

“We do not seek compensation from the Men,” the Elf said.

“Well then!” Bilbo said. “Thank you for coming, I’m sure, and I hope you’ll stay for tea; but perhaps we might get on with it?”

“King Thranduil expects the Dwarves to compensate him for the losses the Elves  suffered, without which they would be dead or homeless still,” the Elf said.

“Thank you; I was there,” Bilbo said tartly.  “I believe I know what Thranduil was promised, and it was to share in the fourteenth that I traded to Bard—so that’s for you and the Men to work out.  If he doesn’t want any part of it anymore, then I applaud his generosity—but it is all the more reason your presence at this meeting is superfluous.”

“The King wants his compensation from the Dwarves, not the Men,” the Elf repeated.

“That’s all well and good, but not what he agreed to,” Bilbo said.  _Was the Elf **trying** to annoy him?  Blast Balin for dragging him into this._    “And as the battle is over, I believe the time for negotiation has passed.”

“The battle’s truce has ended as well,” the Elf replied.  “If the Dwarves want peace, they will deliver the white gems to Thranduil.”

Glóin blustered, but a gesture from Balin held him to quietly glowering in his seat.  The other Dwarf looked to Balin as if for instructions, but Balin didn’t look away from the Elf.

“Do you threaten another siege?” Balin asked.  “Thranduil is prepared to go to war for this?”

“Siege?  No,” the Elf replied.  “We will remain within the borders of our home, and we threaten no one—but if anyone attempts to cross any part of our wood, they will be lucky to see our prisons.”

“Men have no part of this quarrel,” Bard protested.

“No,” the Elf said. “Thranduil makes this demand only of the Dwarves.”  Bard relaxed, until the Elf added, “But the ban on travel through the wood applies to all allies of the Dwarves, including Men—nor will Thranduil trade with Dwarven allies.”

“But the wine for his feasts! Rare delicacies from far away!” the Master protested.  “The Men of Esgaroth and the Elves of the Woods have long traded, since before the Dwarves came to the Lonely Mountain.”

“And for many years before Men settled at the Long Lake, the Elves of the Greenwood lived comfortably without such trade,” the Elf replied.  “Should it prove necessary, it is no hardship to do so again.  Trade with the Dwarves or with the Elves as you like, but you won’t have both.”

“Dáin has granted me authority to treat only with Bard, and only regarding Master Baggins’ fourteenth share of the profits of our venture,” Balin said.  “I cannot do more.”

The Elf stood, as did his silent companion.  “Then our part in this discussion has ended,” he said.

“Nay, have patience,” Balin said. “Won’t Thranduil wait a short time until I can bring your request to the king?  It’s a bit short-sighted of him to expect an answer within five minutes.”

The Elf wavered.  “I cannot wait; I am expected to return at speed to my king, either with the white gems or with word of the Dwarves’ refusal.”

“It seems to me you don’t have either,” Bilbo said.  “You might as well wait until you do.”

The Elf shook his head.

“Go back to your king if you must,” Balin said, “but if he is willing, then perhaps he’ll send another delegation? Say, in two weeks time? In the meantime, I’ll speak to Dáin; and we’ll have a proper answer when you return.”  Here he nodded to the Dwarf from the Iron Hills, who quietly left.

“I cannot speak for King Thranduil,” the Elf said.  “I cannot promise this.”

_Oh, toadstools and tabby cats_ , Bilbo thought.  “Then you are only the scarecrow and not the farmer,” he said.  “Go back to your king and tell him what Balin has said, and you can tell him too that I say—“

“Master Baggins!” Balin interrupted. “Thank you for your assistance; I think we’d best leave things as they stand.”

Bilbo suspected his scowl was a match for Glóin’s.  “I didn’t risk what I did only for it all to fall apart two months later.”

Balin’s smile was as sad as it was understanding.  “No,” he said. “But you must leave this to us Dwarves now.”  He turned his attention to the Elves.  “I believe we have gone as far as we can this day.  I hope to see you again in a fortnight’s time.”

Bilbo took some satisfaction in the expression on the Elf’s face; it seemed he had expected to make a grand exit after delivering his ultimatum to protesting Dwarves rather than be cordially dismissed after a polite request for some time to consider.  He was terribly cross with Thranduil.  He had taken the Arkenstone from Thorin and brought it to the Men and Elves knowing that Thorin would be furious with him, but ready to face the consequences in return for peace—though it was true he had not expected such a violent reaction.  It had not been an easy decision for him to make and a large part of him regretted it now. Why should they all be such greedy guts?  Why had Thranduil changed his mind?

They waited in silence while the Elves departed, then Balin turned to Bard.

“Shall we return to our negotiations?” he asked.

“How long will it take for my share of the gold to be accounted for?” Bard responded.

“In its entirety?” Balin asked with a frown. He paused before answering, “Five weeks, and I would recommend delivery in quarterly instalments.”

“Five weeks!  Instalments!” the Master said.  “It’s an outrage!  One week should be more than sufficient.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“If you don’t have anything to bring to the picnic, perhaps you should take tea at home today, we Hobbits would say,” he said.  “If Balin says it will take five weeks, it will take five weeks.  _I_ am shocked it can be done that _quickly_.”

The Master turned to Bard.

“How well do you think this Hobbit can be trusted?” he asked.  “He is the Dwarves’ creature!”

Trembling with rage, Bilbo stood.

“I am my own ‘creature,’ thank you very much,” he said.  “When Bard returns in five weeks to collect his reward, may I suggest you remain in Esgaroth?”

“I am the ruler of Esgaroth!” the Man said.  “As a loyal subject, Bard has pledged half of this gold to me, for the care of our abject people.”

“What?!” Bilbo exclaimed. “ _Half_ of it? To _you_?”

“Half to the survivors of Esgaroth, who are in my care,” the Man said. “Bard thinks only of the welfare of the people, as do I.  Not all Men have chosen to go to Dale.”

Bilbo had seen how well the Master cared for the Men living in Esgaroth for himself, thank you very much. He would listen to this nonsense no longer.  He turned to Bard.

“I made that bargain with you, not anyone else—not Thranduil, not Gandalf, and certainly not this codfish,” he said.

Bard stood as well, the better to slam his hands on the table.  “Did you think I would hoard it to myself like a Dwarf?  You have no right to tell me what to do with my share.”

“Well,” Bilbo said. “Perhaps I don’t. Only it seems a shame I should have traded it to a fool!”

Balin jumped to his feet in an attempt to intervene.

“Come, Master Baggins,” he said. “Be reasonable. You did give your share to Bard; and he may dispose of it as he chooses, whether you approve or not.”

Bilbo humphed.  Balin turned his attention to Bard.

“No one is denying you your share,” he told him.  “Please, sit. If you will wait, I will have my share brought up and you may take it instead.  We won’t be able to search for any particular treasures of Dale; but if you leave a description, we will look for them and set them aside so that you may buy them back for a fair estimate of their worth.”

Bard shuffled a bit, nodded curtly, and sat.  The Master, who had remained intent in his chair for the exchange, leant back in self-satisfied triumph.  Balin whispered to Glóin and Glóin left, presumably to bring up Balin’s share.  Bilbo had been unaware that any of the shares had been measured out, but he had been more occupied with his grief than with the progress the Dwarves were making in distributing the treasure. He had been under the impression that Dáin had told the Company that while they would be richly rewarded, the majority of the gold must remain in Erebor to repair the mountain city and care for the Dwarves who even now were coming to live in the Lonely Mountain. The Company would not receive their contracted fourteenths—only Bard would have that much, in keeping with Bilbo’s promise to him.  Bilbo thought restoring Erebor and caring for its people a proper use of the mountain’s wealth, and he didn’t begrudge the devastated Men a single coin; but he hated to see any of it go to the Master.  He wanted to storm out in a fury, but he refused to give that wormy Man the satisfaction.  He crossed his arms and sat as well.

Balin called for refreshments while they waited in strained silence.  Bilbo would usually have sought to fill such an uncomfortable gathering with light chatter, but he was out of charity with all of them, and if he spoke he was sure to chastise Bard again. Clearly that would be a pointless endeavour.  He filled his plate with the most delightful looking tarts; but the Master’s gluttony put his appetite entirely off, and he couldn’t eat a thing, only stare disconsolately at the forsaken pies.

At last the doors to the chamber opened wide to admit several Dwarves pushing a pallet heavily laden with gold and silver in all forms:  primarily coin; but also jewellery, heavy bricks, and any manner of bowl or vase or other object that might be made of precious metals.  The Master sat up with more alacrity than Bilbo had ever seen from him.

“I shall take my half now, I think,” he said.  “It will be difficult enough for you to transport yours, much less mine as well!  And of course the people of Esgaroth cannot wait one minute more than necessary.”

“Of _course_ not,” Bilbo said. The Master glared at Bilbo, who raised his eyebrows scornfully, but the Man didn’t say anything further.

One of the Dwarves who had pushed the pallet through the doors stood and approached the table, and Bilbo was surprised to see it was Dáin.  Quickly Balin stood and bowed, as did the other Dwarves.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

The Men, upon realising this Dwarf was no simple labourer, stood to bow as well—Bard, stiff and proud; his Man, awkward and clumsy; and the Master and his servant with slimy suaveness.

Dáin hesitated a moment before speaking, and Bilbo realised with a start that _he_ had not acknowledged the King under the Mountain.  He hopped to his feet and bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty,” he said. Dáin paused again, bowed his head to Bilbo, and then to Balin and Bard.

“Can we help you transport your share?” he asked Bard.

Bard shook his head, but the Master smiled his unctuous smirk at the king.

“I am most grateful for the offer,” he said.  “Half of this gold belongs to the people of Esgaroth, whose humble representative I am. We are in desperate straits, and I would hurry back to the people with this treasure as soon as possible.”

Dáin nodded to one of the Dwarves standing at attention next to the pallet, and he immediately gestured in several more Dwarves who quickly and efficiently packed up half the gold in several large chests.  The Master led them out of the room, shedding smug self-congratulation all the way. His simpering servant scurried behind.  Bilbo had to restrain the urge to run after and kick them.

Dáin watched them go. Bilbo could read nothing from his face until Glóin stepped through the door and nodded to him. A flicker of—was that a smile?—crossed his face as he acknowledged Glóin’s nod.  Glóin withdrew, and Dáin turned back to the Dwarves and Men—and Bilbo—remaining at the table.

“Balin,” he said.  “Are you done?”

“Not quite,” Balin said. “We have some matters to discuss regarding the unique items that came from Dale.  Master Bard, have you a list of items? With descriptions, I hope?”

Bard’s brow knit.

“I don’t know,” he said. “My mother used to speak of Girion’s emeralds, but beyond that…I don’t know.”

“It’s been several generations for you Men,” Balin said.  “May I recommend that you seek some of your elders to ask if they have memories of stories they were told of Dale’s wealth?  There may be clues within the tales to direct our search.  And some of us, myself included, have memories of Dale as she was.  I have seen Girion’s emeralds myself.  We may not recognise what was personal, but anything that was well-known or on public display, we will know.”

“When you have it, send your list to Balin,” Dáin said.  “What was yours will be returned to you.  Now: you will need help to move your gold.” Bard shook his head, but Dáin persevered.  “If you want to leave some here for safekeeping, you are welcome to; you don’t need to move it all at once.  How did you plan to take this back to Dale?  Saddlebags?  Knapsacks?”

Bard flushed before rallying.

“I can’t come back here every time I pay someone for their work or buy food for my family,” he said. “And I won’t be indebted. I’ve always made my own way.”

“You have more responsibilities now, Lord of Dale,” Dáin said.  “Take as much as you need; take it all now if you want.  It’s yours.  But if you choose to leave some portion of your share here under the mountain’s protection, you may; and if you want additional guards for your return journey to Dale, you have them.  There is no debt involved.  We will be neighbours.  I want only honest goodwill between us.”

Bard exchanged glances with the other Man before answering Dáin.

“I welcome your words,” he said. “Trust and goodwill take time to build, but I will deal fairly with you if you do the same with me. For now, I have Men waiting for me at your Gates.  We can handle my share of the gold, and I will take it all with us—not because I don’t trust you, but because we’ll need every coin of it soon.”

“It’s a lot of gold,” Dáin said.

“More than I have ever seen,” Bard said.  “But there are many to house and feed waiting for me, and much work to do.  I hope to make this gold last as long as possible, but we need it now.”

“As you will,” Dáin said. “I’ll have the rest sent directly to the Gates.”

Bard halted.  “The rest?”

“Yes,” Dáin answered. “Did you think this was all? This is a tenth of your share.”

Bard sat down hard.

“A tenth,” he said.

They waited; but he simply sat there.

“Perhaps we might hold some of it for you after all?” Balin suggested.

Bard had been staring at the table in front of him, but now he looked up.

“I think so,” he said.

Learning that Esgaroth’s Master had not actually made off with half of Bard’s gold improved Bilbo’s mood, though he was still annoyed that the trumped-up toad had any of it.  He could not believe the people of Esgaroth would see any benefit of it.  But he walked Bard to the Gates and refrained from chiding him further.  Balin was correct; he had given his share over into Bard’s hands, and it was Bard’s to do with as he wished.

Dáin accompanied them, but didn’t speak much.  As Bard was also a taciturn fellow, the walk was very quiet.  Normally Bilbo would have felt the need to fill such silence with chatter, but with these two he thought it unnecessary. Likely such social niceties would make them more uncomfortable, not less.

“I wish you well, Lord Bard,” Dáin said as they made their farewells.  “Should you require the Dwarves of Erebor, ask; and we will come.”

“We are used to fending for ourselves,” Bard replied.

Bilbo’s restraint had been used up in not scolding Bard any more as they walked to the Gates.  He rolled his eyes.  “Which is why His Majesty is telling you to ask should you need aid.  Ginger biscuits! Will you measure your pride against the good of your people?  You won’t make a very good lord if you do.”

Bard frowned.

“Very well,” he said. “I thank you for your generous offer, Your Majesty.”

“Please, both of you—“ Dáin said. “Dáin.  When you call me ‘your majesty,’ I think I should look behind myself to see who’s there.”  That that person would have been Thorin remained unspoken.

Bard nodded in farewell and began his descent to where his small group of Men waited.  Bilbo and Dáin watched him go.

“He won’t ask for help, you know,” Bilbo said.

“Likely not,” Dáin said. “But if a score of Dwarves shows up in a week or so, I don’t think he’ll turn them away, either. Especially if they bring Girion’s emeralds with them.”  He nodded a brisk farewell to Bilbo and retreated down the hall into the mountain.

Bilbo remained at the Gates a while longer, his face turned up to the noon sun.  He had been underground too long.  Perhaps later he would go out for a walk on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. He had been in the habit of coming to the Gates only to watch the occasional sunset; and now, with the sun on his face, he realised how much he needed sunlight and a fresh breeze all the more.  But for now, it was time for lunch; and then he would go back to the library.  The parchment he had been restoring earlier had told the most fascinating story of a long ago conflict between Dwarves and Elves, and Bilbo wanted to see how it ended.

Later, when he explored the bleak slopes of the Lonely Mountain under the wintry sun, his gaze was drawn again and again to the shadow of the Mirkwood against the distant horizon. He wondered how the Elves would tell of where the root of the bitterness between Elf and Dwarf lay. He was certain Thorin’s resentment had sprung primarily from the Elves’ abandonment of their Dwarven allies when Smaug came, but he suspected that Thranduil’s memory was longer. Had the king of the Wood Elves another motive when he refused to come to the Dwarves’ aid after Smaug’s attack? Were the ‘white gems’ he wanted related to that long ago dispute?  Did that resentment fester still in his heart, so that any alliance between Dwarf and Wood Elf was doomed from the start?

He wondered if Dáin knew the history of the enmity, and if he would be willing to accede to Thranduil’s demands, or if he believed even a nominal truce with the Elves impossible. He could not read Dáin the way he had learnt to interpret the subtleties of Thorin’s expressions.

But then, he had been motivated by love to learn to understand Thorin, so different from himself or any Hobbit; and he had no such motivation with Dáin.  He seemed an honest, blunt sort; not a bad Dwarf or a bad king. Balin and the other Dwarves seemed satisfied under his rule, though of course they mourned Thorin as well.

Bilbo did not dislike him; nor could he care for him.  Dáin was not Thorin.  He must, therefore, be a lesser Dwarf than his cousin.  Thorin:  rude, suspicious, wounded…  Bilbo missed him as much for his faults as for his more superior qualities:  his bravery, his intelligence, his honour, his dedication to his people.

Most of all, he missed his wondering smile when he looked on Bilbo, as if he saw something precious—so rare he had doubted its existence.  He sighed and turned his face away from the chill wind to Erebor’s Gate.  Some pain he could not escape, but he would seek what shelter he could.

He was a practical Hobbit. Thorin was dead, but Bilbo was not.  Life went on, for Dwarves and Elves and Men alike.  He would as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on [tumblr](http://www.salviag.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your encouragement and kind words; they have been very motivational! I love hearing what you think about this story. Y'all are the best.
> 
> FYI: Bilbo's "rude young Dwarf" from the tombs tells him a bit about the geography of the Iron Hills in this chapter, which was not quite entirely--though almost--stolen from the geography of Scotland, including any place names.

***

Bilbo did not realise at first, but that day signalled a change to his time under the mountain.  He still mourned; but he had been reminded that life continued despite Thorin’s death, and that he might have some part in it yet.  For the first time since the battle ended, he sought occupation for more reason than merely something to fill the hours until he might go again to the Durin crypt.

As part of this renewed attention to life apart from mourning, it became his habit to take a trek on the mountainside in the later part of the afternoon.   The rest of his days fell into a pattern as well.  In the morning, he would go to the library, where he continued to clean and restore the vast collection of Dwarven writing.  While not an urgent need, it was not only helpful, but also something Bilbo enjoyed; and he needed some time spent each day in pleasant occupation.  After lunch, he girded himself for the grim task of cleaning the empty residences of Erebor. With over five hundred Dwarves in the mountain and more expected every day, places to sleep were much needed.

But this distressing chore required more than a dust cloth and a bucket of soapy water. Not every home was vacant. Some Dwarves had perished in their homes, and their remains must be dealt with.

The first time Bilbo tried to move a corpse, he vomited where he stood. He apologised profusely to the ‘Ri brothers, his companions in this endeavour; but Nori comforted him while Ori and Dori matter-of-factly cleaned up his mess.

“No shame in it,” Nori said.  “I remember the first time I had to move a body.  Had nightmares for weeks.”  He extended a waterskin to Bilbo, who rinsed the bitter taste of bile from his mouth as he regarded Nori.  He had known that life had not been easy for the Dwarves before they regained Erebor, homeless wanderers that they were; but what sort of life had Nori had?

“How old were you?” he asked.

Nori pursed his lips and took the waterskin back.

“About thirty, I guess,” he said.  “Bit younger, maybe.”

So young.  A Hobbit of thirty would be just leaving his tweens, nearly an adult; but a Dwarf of thirty—Kíli had been more than twice that.  Thirty was very young for a Dwarf.

“I can’t imagine,” Bilbo said.

Nori shrugged.  “Long time ago now. Come on.  There’s lots else you can do to clean up this place. You don’t need to mess with these.”

“No,” he said.  “I’ll do it. Just give me a moment.”

And he did, but the gruesome task didn’t sit easily with him. The ‘Ri brothers did him the courtesy of ignoring the tears running down his cheeks.

After a few hours of this each day, he was desperate to escape from under the mountain into the bitter cold outside.  The wind might sting his cheeks, but it was fresh and clean and it blew away the scent of death and calamity that clung to Bilbo.  He roamed up and down and around the Lonely Mountain, though he was careful not to travel so far that he couldn’t return to the Gates of Erebor by dusk.  He wouldn’t care to be caught out on the mountain slopes after dark, when temperatures dropped precipitously—and on occasion Dwarven patrols found signs that some stray Orcs and Wargs remained in the area.  They hid in sunlit hours; but at night the foul creatures would emerge to hunt, and Bilbo chose not to risk falling prey to them.

Yet, though he was committed to his involvement in life under the mountain during the day, in the evenings he returned to his vigil by Thorin’s tomb. The young Dwarf who also haunted the Durin crypt in the evenings and he had reached an unspoken truce: they did not speak to each other or meet each other’s eyes; nor did either of them shy away from the other, so that at times they might stand side by side, each enclosed in his own shell of grief.  Bilbo came to be glad of the other’s presence as a reminder that he was not alone in mourning these losses.  Life in Erebor under Dáin’s rule, busy and active, seemed to go on without any trace of Thorin or his sister-sons.  It seemed wrong to Bilbo, that their loss was not imprinted on the very stones of the mountain city, that their deaths had erased any sign of their lives but this quiet mausoleum.  He liked to imagine that his companion felt the same.

Dáin continued to come on occasion, usually as the evening progressed into night.  The first time he came while Bilbo was there with his young companion he seemed surprised—and perhaps taken aback—to see them together.

“Master Baggins,” he greeted Bilbo before turning to the young Dwarf.

“Dáin,” the Dwarf said brusquely, brushing by the king under the mountain as he left. It seemed his rudeness was not reserved for Bilbo alone.  Dáin seemed resigned to this treatment rather than insulted.  He remained in the arched entry for a time, looking back the way the young Dwarf had gone before joining Bilbo by Thorin’s tomb; and if Bilbo could sometimes feel his eyes on him, it seemed curiosity rather than the rude staring others subjected him to.  Dáin did not come every night.  But when he did, the young Dwarf left immediately.

Perhaps a fortnight passed this way before anything disturbed Bilbo’s carefully structured existence.  He had become, if not inured, at least somewhat desensitised to the grim work of clearing the homes; and he was content with his other duties.

Then one afternoon Bilbo opened the door into a set of rooms to find a Dwarf woman sitting at the table in her kitchen, frozen in place at the moment of her death, with a baby at her skirts, reaching up as if to be picked up.  And in the next room, two children sat playing a game, the stone pieces of it still scattered between them, with a third lying on her stomach nearby, a scorched book propped up in her hands—all of them, fixed as statues in the exact moment of their death.

He ran.

He offered no explanation to the ‘Ri brothers as he pushed past them, but he suspected his face was explanation enough.  He ran until he found a nook where he could collapse on the floor, crying, hiding from the curious eyes of living Dwarves.

He could not hide from the images of that tragic family, no matter how tightly he screwed his eyes shut.

After a time he had recovered enough to feel that he might sit up and move again, but he was not yet himself—he felt ripped apart inside, weighted down by all the Dwarves had lost when Smaug seized the Lonely Mountain—immersed in loss and death.  Always, with these Dwarves—death upon horrid, tragic death.  He wanted only to feel the stiff wind battering at his numb self until this unending devastation cracked and was blown away into the winter sky. He ran again, this time for the Gates.

When he reached Erebor’s Gates, however, they were closed against the icy rain beating down upon the slopes of the Lonely Mountain.  The guards would not open the Gates to him in this weather. After a moment’s pause to think, he climbed the stairs to the battlements.  The ramparts were open to the mountain air and unmanned in this weather,  and Bilbo would brave the storm for hope that it might sluice off everything, all the tragedy and grief of this place.  He pulled off his ring and stepped out into the wind and icy rain and prayed for everything to wash away—for all his pain to go, blown away by wind and water, so that he might wake to find this had all been nothing more than a disturbing dream. At this moment he would give much to be the shallow, untouched Hobbit he had been before his journey began.

He stayed as long as he could stand it, until the pins and prickles of cold faded and his limbs grew numb.  He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he didn’t feel cleansed—but he felt dazed and heavy, too wrung out to hurt anymore.  He came inside, not bothering with his ring, and went straight to Thorin’s tomb.  He was earlier than usual, and no one else was there.  He sat at the foot of Thorin’s sarcophagus, sodden and cold, shivering, his hands and feet stinging as his limbs returned to life. He would stay like this until someone came; and then he would go or he would wear his ring, he didn’t know… His eyes stung as he began to cry once more.

His life had been so easy.  Why had Thorin’s been so hard?  Why had his people suffered so—why had they lost so much?  He didn’t understand why it should be so. Life had been so very cruel to the Dwarves he loved.

He startled awake to the feel of someone’s hand on his shoulder. He didn’t remember falling asleep, only resting his head on his knees and closing his sore eyes for a moment. But now that the great rush of emotion was past, he was terribly uncomfortable—he didn’t know how he had slept, he was so cold.  His clothing was still wet and he couldn’t stop shivering.

“Master Baggins?  Master Baggins!”  It was the young Dwarf.  Bilbo blinked at him. “You’re wet through and through—you must be freezing!”

“I went outside,” he said.  “It was raining.”

“Went outside!” the Dwarf exclaimed.  He pulled Bilbo to his feet and began roughly stripping off his sodden jacket and shirt before wrapping Bilbo up in his own coat.  The leather was lined with a soft flannel still warm from the Dwarf’s body.  “Come on, then.”  He left Bilbo’s wet clothes where they were and bundled Bilbo out of the tomb and back up into the city.

“My clothes!” Bilbo protested.

“I don’t think anyone’ll steal ‘em,” the Dwarf said, shaking his head. “Sitting around in those—you haven’t the sense of a Cave Troll.”

“I like that!” Bilbo said.  “I'm a perfectly rational Hobbit, adventures with Dwarves aside.”

“No one with any sense goes out into weather like this if they can help it; and if they must, they change into dry clothes after,” the Dwarf said. “Where do you live?”

Bilbo pointed in the proper direction, and the Dwarf proceeded to chivvy him all the way there.  He wouldn’t leave until Bilbo had changed into something dry; and by the time he had, Bilbo was feeling all the foolishness of his actions that afternoon.  He emerged from his bedroom wrapped in an over-large sweater Dori had knit for him and a pair of scavenged trousers to find his guest had started a fire and put on the kettle in his absence.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said.  “I admit, I wasn’t thinking very clearly this afternoon.  It will be astonishing if I don’t fall ill because of my foolheadedness.”

“What were you thinking?” the Dwarf asked.

“I had a distressing experience this afternoon,” Bilbo said. “And then everything caught up to me all over again.”  He went into the kitchen to gather two heavy mugs, tea, a loaf of bread, sausage, and a bit of cheese and pickles.  “Not much of a supper, I’m afraid; but I hope you’ll join me anyway.” He hesitated.  “I’m Bilbo, by the way.”

“You’re the only Hobbit under the mountain,” the young Dwarf said. “I know who you are.”

“Sit, if you please, Master Dwarf!” Bilbo said tartly.  “Your manners could do with some improvement. You are the rudest Dwarf of my acquaintance, and that’s saying something.”  The Dwarf sank into one of the chairs by the fire, and Bilbo set the tea to steep and sat opposite him.

“My manners are fine,” the Dwarf said.  His chin jut out stubbornly.  “Maybe I don’t have the princely manners you expect, but I’m not ashamed of being from the Iron Hills.”

Bilbo laughed.

“I won’t stay to be laughed at,” the Dwarf said, standing.

“Sit down!” Bilbo said.  “Do you wear a stone helmet on your stone head when you go out so that no one will have any doubt that you are a Dwarf?  I promise you it isn’t necessary!  None could doubt it!  Now, sit; and if you have no name to give, you will have to be Master Stonehelm.”  The Dwarf shifted on his feet and pouted a bit first, but eventually he reseated himself.

“ _Thank_ you,” Bilbo said.  “Now: I don’t have any milk, but I have a bit of honey for your tea if you like.”

The Dwarf fidgeted.

“No thank you,” he said at last.

Bilbo eyed him dubiously before he realised.  “Oh!” he said.  “Or on your bread?”

“Yes please,” he said sheepishly.  Bilbo went to the kitchen in search of the honey, and when he returned he found young Stonehelm slicing the bread.

“So you do have manners when you choose to exert yourself,” he said. The Dwarf kept his eyes lowered as he finished slicing the bread and moved on to the sausage. Bilbo regarded him for a bit, and when he judged the tea was finished steeping, he poured for both of them and extended a mug to his companion.  “Tell me about the Iron Hills,” he said.  “Are they much like the Lonely Mountain?”

Stonehelm shook his head, and Bilbo waited for more.

“They’re—not so high, but wider,” he said at last.  “We’ve corbetts by the hundreds; I’m not sure how many there are. We’re taught the names when we’re young, but I’ve forgotten many of them.”  He smiled wryly at Bilbo.  “Must be my stone head.”

“Likely,” Bilbo said.  “What is a ‘corbett’? I like to think I am an educated Hobbit, but that is not a word I’ve heard before.”

Stonehelm’s face grew animated.  “A corbett is a hill— or it could be a small mountain, maybe.  In Khuzdul it would be—“ he paused. “Probably I shouldn’t tell you the Khuzdul, actually.  We lived under Benn né Vis Corbett—it’s the largest city in the Iron Hills and the Lord’s Seat; but my  _amad_ was from Pap of Glencoe—we’d visit twice every year until she died, and then _Adad_ was too busy to take me—it’s pretty there, green most of the year, and the Carnen warmer—I miss it.  _Adadel_ used to come get me for a visit once a year, but he was too busy to come more than that.  And now…”  He sighed.  “Now I don’t know when I’ll be able to go again.”

“Have you come to live in Erebor, then?” Bilbo asked. 

Stonehelm’s brow furrowed.

“Yes,” he said.  “ _Adad_ has to, of course; and he won’t leave me behind.  I’m an adult, but try telling _Adad_ that.”

Bilbo nodded.

“I expect many Dwarves will be coming to Erebor in the coming months,” he said.  “Though the Iron Hills seem from your description to be a lovely place.  Perhaps you will be able to return, once the rebuilding of Erebor is complete.”

“I don’t think so,” Stonehelm said.  “To visit, maybe; but not to live.  Some will remain in the Iron Hills, I’m sure; I know _Adadel_ will.  He and _Adad_ don’t get along, and he won’t want to give up Pap of Glencoe.  But while the Iron Hills may be greener, they aren’t so rich as the Lonely Mountain.  Many will come, hoping for an easier life.”

Chatting with Stonehelm revealed that he was a very different Dwarf than Bilbo had thought him.  Clearly he set no stock in making a proper first impression, for he was rude as a goat in the garden with strangers; but after one came to know him better he was thoughtful and rather sweet.  He was terribly homesick, though, and lonely besides.  Bilbo wondered if he ought to introduce him to Ori. They were both young, and he thought they might get on; but Stonehelm might scare Ori away with his customary attitude.  It required further thought.

At last they parted with a promise to meet for dinner the next day before walking together to the Durins’ tomb.  Bilbo went directly to bed after Stonehelm left and slept through the night, dreaming of rough, rolling green hills and a sparkling river running through them.

Several days passed this way.  Bilbo apologised to the ‘Ri brothers for deserting them the way he had, but they waved off his apologies.  Ori confessed he had also been upset and had left the removal of the bodies to Dori and Nori.  Many of the neighbouring homes held Dwarven families killed in the same way—all of them, one moment alive, the next dead, too fast for them to flee or even move. Bilbo gritted his teeth and did his part as long as he could stand to do it before fleeing for the thin sunlight and brisk wind of the Lonely Mountain’s slopes.  It helped when Dori pointed out that their deaths must have been so quick that they were painless—and they had not known to fear either.

Still, the children—it was very hard to see the children.  Bilbo thought of what it would have been like if Smaug had come to the Shire, and shuddered.  He tried to put it from his mind as best he could, but he could not entirely forget.  Often he pondered whether Thorin had thought taking the Lonely Mountain back for his people worth his death, and Fíli’s and Kíli’s, and the many others lost in battle.

Bilbo had never believed the exchange was a fair one; but now, seeing all these Dwarves and their families at the moment of their deaths… No.  It was not fair and it never could be.

But he thought Thorin might have chosen it anyway.  And if had been his home and his people, he couldn’t say that he would not have made the same choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holidays are nearly here, and my anniversary is just after the first of the year (and it's a big one in 2015, an ending in a zero one!) So if updates become sparser for the next two weeks--that's why. All of you who are celebrating December holidays, I hope they're lovely--and a happy New Year to everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very busy holiday for me, but today I ignored any responsibilities for hosting out-of-town family in favor of BOTFA meta regarding Bagginshield. Luckily this (rather short) chapter was already done and needed only a read-over.
> 
> Speaking of BOTFA: I wrote this fic long before that film was released; and while I may change a bit here and there in response to it, there's lots I don't plan to change. Don't expect this fic to be entirely compliant to film canon.
> 
> I wish all of you a Happy 2015! And I want to thank you for being such an incredible fandom. Y'all are the best.

***

Bilbo and Stonehelm didn’t meet for dinner every evening, but once or twice a week they took a quiet meal by Bilbo’s fire before making their pilgrimage to the Durins’ tomb.  Now that they had passed beyond their initial antagonism, Bilbo enjoyed Stonehelm’s company quite as much as any Dwarf of the Company; and in addition, Stonehelm shared Bilbo’s greater—perhaps it was unfair to the others to say greater _grief_ —greater comfort in acknowledging their loss, then.  He wondered what made Stonehelm different in this way.

One evening as they stood by Thorin’s sarcophagus, he asked him. Stonehelm didn’t answer for a long time.

“I wanted to go with them,” he said at last.  “ _Adad_ didn’t tell me what they did until it was too late for me to join.  He said Thorin might be so careless with his heirs but he would not be so with his son. I’m still mad at him about it.”

“It’s not a bad thing, is it?  Your father wanted you to be safe,” Bilbo said.

“I’m a Dwarf grown,” Stonehelm answered.  “The decision should have been mine to make—but he deceived me so that I wouldn’t know.  At first I was mostly jealous—that Thorin trusted Fíli and Kíli, and thought they would be warriors worth having on the journey; and my father didn’t think the same of me.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he remained quiet. After a time, Stonehelm continued.

“I only met them a few times,” he said.  “Thorin visited us more, but Fíli and Kíli came to the Iron Hills with him twice.  I didn’t know them well enough to call us friends, really…but what I did know of them, I liked. They were so close to me in age and circumstance.  I admired them and felt we shared a kinship beyond that of blood.  I followed them around like a Dwarfling. I was badly jealous even then—I’ve wanted a brother as long as I can remember; and when I saw how they were with each other, I only wanted one more.  I know their life wasn’t easy, but when I was growing up—it seemed a grand adventure to me, who had never left the Iron Hills. I never considered that I had a home in a way they didn’t.”

“I once told Bofur he didn’t understand what it was to have a home, a place to belong, because he didn’t have one,” Bilbo said.  “I don’t know if I have ever wanted to take any words back more than those.”

Stonehelm nodded.  “Within a fortnight of coming here, I understood the value of my home,” he said. “Now that I have left it, I value it.  I doubt Erebor will ever seem like home to me.”

Bilbo thought about Stonehelm’s words.  Bag End would always be home for him, and there was no question in his mind but that he would return to the Shire when he was ready. Yet in a way he had come to think of his companions as home as well—where they were, he would always have a place, no matter how different it was from the place he had lived all his life. He expressed as much to Stonehelm.

Stonehelm looked away, but Bilbo saw the glint of tears in his eyes before he did.

“This will always be their home in my mind, and I will always be an interloper who stole what should be theirs,” he said.  “When I learnt that they had died—“  He wiped his wet cheeks.  “I should have been there!”

Bilbo extended a hesitant hand to Stonehelm’s shoulder, and he turned and collapsed into Bilbo’s arms.

“I feel so guilty,” he said.  “Why did they have to die?”

Bilbo clung to his young friend as tears began to roll down his cheeks as well.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “I wish I did.  Every day I think of them and how they died, and I curse myself for not being by their side.”

“I won’t ever be happy here,” Stonehelm said.  “To me this will always be the place they died, the place they should have ruled.  Sometimes I wish the Dragon still held the mountain.  Maybe then they would still live.”

“That I cannot wish,” Bilbo replied.  “Smaug was a terrible evil.  And if you could have seen Thorin’s face, heard him speak of Erebor—  Their home has been returned to his wandering folk, and I believe that was worth the risk to him.  He knew what he faced.”

Stonehelm pulled back a bit, and Bilbo let him go.

“Can you say the same for Kíli and Fíli?” he asked.

Bilbo sighed.  “Did they fully understand the risk?  I don’t know. But I do believe they wanted to come. Was it any different for you? You wanted to join the quest, but did you truly know what the Company faced?”

Stonehelm didn’t answer.

“They were with each other until the end,” Bilbo added.  “I am certain that they would have chosen that.”

“Maybe someday I will be glad of that,” Stonehelm said.  “It’s not much comfort to me now.”

“No,” Bilbo said.  “I suppose not.” After a short pause, he continued. “I understand why you feel guilty, for I feel the same.  But it is not your fault.  You must forgive yourself for living when they died.”

“Have you?” Stonehelm asked him.

“I don’t blame myself for living,” Bilbo said.  “That is mere chance.  But for not being there to defend them—yes.  I still blame myself for that, though I blame Thorin as well.”  He exhaled heavily. “I am very angry with him—that he valued the Arkenstone above us, and that he sent me away at the end. I know that his line was prone to an illness of the mind—I knew it as long ago as Rivendell. I shouldn’t hold against him what he couldn’t help, but I do anyway.”

“For a long time I was angry with you,” Stonehelm said.  “I saw what you did as disloyal.”

“That’s not why I did it,” Bilbo said.  “I only wanted to stop them from fighting Men and Elves over something so stupid as gold—when there was so much of it, and so few of us, and so many Men died because we woke Smaug.”  He paused.  “Because I woke him. Thorin sent me into the mountain, but I am the one who woke him.  But perhaps it was a betrayal after all.”  He paused.  “Do you no longer see it that way?”

“I’ve seen how much you loved him,” Stonehelm said.  “More than anyone else, I think.”

“I don’t know about that,” Bilbo said.

“I do,” Stonehelm replied.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Dáin share a walk and some conversation.

***

 

It had been more than three weeks since Dáin had invited Thranduil to send another delegation to Erebor when the Elves returned.  Bilbo had forgotten to watch for them; but one afternoon as he went to the Gates for his daily walk, Dáin was there as well.

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo said.

“And a good afternoon to you, Master Baggins,” Dáin replied.

“If I am to call you Dáin, surely you must call me Bilbo,” Bilbo said. “I shall feel quite uncomfortable otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Dáin said. His lips quirked up at the corners, just the barest bit. “Bilbo it is.” He turned his attention to the road going down the mountain from the Gates.  “Have you come to greet the Elves?  News travels fast.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said.  “Are they coming today?  No, I always go for a walk in the afternoon before it grows too dark.”

Dáin turned back to look at him, his brow furrowed.

“By yourself?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo replied.  “You Dwarves don’t seem to need the sunlight the way I do, and I don’t mind going by myself. It’s good to have a bit of time to think.”

“Do you mind company today?” Dáin asked.  “I will walk out to greet the Elves; and if you would join me, I would be grateful.  I’d like to start on as genial a foot as possible, and I think your presence would help.”

Bilbo was silent.  Here was another difference between Thorin and Dáin, and it was rather a striking one.  Dain would “walk out to greet the Elves”?  Alone, with no escort but for a chance-met Hobbit?

Thorin would never have done so.  Thorin knew too well his place and purpose. He was uncrowned for most of his life, and he endured what his people bore standing among them, not apart and above; but he never forgot that he was the son of kings.  He had hated to ask for help from any but a Dwarf; though he accepted it when he must, always thinking first of his quest. Even from a Dwarf—what he asked was that they would follow him.  Thorin bowed to very few.

Deliberately meeting anyone—especially Thranduil’s delegate—from a position that suggested humble supplication, even servanthood…

He would never have done it.  Thorin’s way was the other way.  He suffered alongside other Dwarves, but with them and even more with other peoples…  Whether they acknowledged his claim or not, he stood among them as a king.

Why would Dáin do this?  He was not stupid.  He must know how it would appear to the Elves.

“Not at all,” he said.  Perhaps Dáin’s purpose would become clear once they met the Elves.

Dáin nodded, and gestured Bilbo to precede him through the Gates.

For a time they walked side by side in silence.  The sky was overcast and the day still. Under their feet the snow had been packed firm, but the air was warm enough that the snow drifts on either side of the road had softened—they weren’t melting, exactly; but they had gone wet and collapsed in on themselves a bit.  As a result the air was damp, and Bilbo shivered despite his many layers.

“Your feet must be freezing,” Dáin said.  “Just looking at them, I want to carry you back to the city and shove socks and boots on your feet.”

Bilbo laughed.  “I do wear boots when it’s colder than this, or if I plan to go off the road, where I will be tromping through the snow.  But I don’t wear them often at home, and they feel strange to me. I haven’t been able to find a pair that’s quite right, either, so my toes are squashed when I must wear them! No, I prefer to do without if I can.”

“But you are cold,” Dáin said.  “I saw you shivering.”

“Yes, a bit, but I’d rather have a nice knitted hat than boots,” Bilbo said. “My ears are colder than my feet.”

Dáin’s mouth curved in that spare near-smile again, and he shook his head.

“Well, you’re not my son,” he said, “and as he’s too old for me to force boots on, I suppose you must be as well.”

“I should say so!” Bilbo replied.

Silence fell between them again, and Bilbo cast a sidelong glance at the king under the mountain.  When they came to Erebor, Thorin had changed from his practical travel wear into more sumptuous clothing; he had always had an impressive presence, but even more so when arrayed in such princely garments.  Thorin had remembered what a king of Erebor looked like.

But if Dáin had any such clothing Bilbo had not seen it.  Dáin’s clothing was clean and kempt, but always practical and hardwearing.  The collar of his coat was fur-lined, but the coat itself was a sturdy leather reinforced with steel discs.  He wore only a few simple braids—and on those he wore iron beads just as Stonehelm did—and no jewellery, not even a ring.  The only aspect of his raiment that was the least bit flattering was his dark red tunic; and Bilbo suspected that had been chosen for comfort rather than for the way the colour became Dáin or the cut which allowed one to observe his admirable physique.

Bilbo had not cared enough to look closely at Dáin before; but now he examined him, looking for any resemblance to Thorin.  He supposed there was some similarity to their profiles, if he searched for it—the line of his jaw or the shape of his nose—but they weren’t much alike otherwise.  Dáin’s colouring was very like Fíli’s, with an added touch of red to his beard—it made any resemblance to Thorin all the more difficult to see.

“May I ask,” Bilbo said, “what was your relation to Thorin? I have been told that you are his cousin; but I have many ‘cousins,’ and I don’t believe I could explain all those connections.  Cousin can mean many things.”

“Cousin is accurate,” Dáin said.  “We shared a great-grandfather.”

“On your fathers’ side?” Bilbo asked.  “And what of your mothers’?”

Dáin shook his head.  “None.”

“Oh!” Bilbo said.  “That’s quite easy!  You were second cousins, then.”

“I thought you couldn’t keep track of such things,” Dáin said.

“Only one relationship? That requires no thought at all,” Bilbo said. “It’s a bit more complicated in the Shire, usually.  My mother and father both come from old and rather prolific families: my father had five siblings and my mother eleven.  So you can imagine.”

“Your mother had _eleven_ siblings?” Dáin said.  “And did they all have such large families? No wonder you have many cousins. Do you have a score of siblings as well, waiting for their brother’s return?”

“Eleven is on the large side for a Hobbit family,” Bilbo replied. “Though not unheard of, certainly. And no—while many of my aunts and uncles have children, there are also some that don’t; and I don’t have any siblings at all.”

“That’s more common with Dwarves,” Dáin said.  “One child, or two—and many who don’t marry.”

“My mother was not able to have any more children after I was born,” Bilbo said.  “She said she never minded—she certainly made a fuss over the neighbouring fauntlings, however.  I think she would have liked a larger family.”

“I can barely imagine what it would be like to have such a large family,” Dáin said. “I don’t have siblings either. Thorin had a brother _and_ a sister, and I thought that was a fine family.  But while it might be hard to keep track of everyone, in the end ten aunts or uncles is not much different from one or two—only the quantity changes.”

“Well,” Bilbo said.  “That’s not precisely true.  For example: my mother’s brother married a woman whose grandfather was my great-grandfather on my father’s side. So is she my maternal aunt, or my first cousin once removed?  Are her children my first cousins or my second cousins? Or here’s another: My first cousin on my mother’s side—my aunt’s daughter, you know—married a Hobbit who was my first cousin once removed on my father’s side of the family.  Or this one:  my mother’s parents are my grandparents, of course; but my grandmother was also my father’s first cousin once removed.  Or—“

“I see!” Dáin said.  “That does grow complicated.  But it seems to be an issue of old families living in the same place for a long time—not simply one of large families.  And you hold it all in your head well enough.”

“I’m actually quite messy about it,” Bilbo said.  “I only care enough to say ‘cousins.’ If I were to marry, then I’d need to pay enough attention to make sure my wife wasn’t _too_ close a cousin; but as I won’t, I don’t bother.”

“You won’t?” Dáin asked.  “You don’t seem old enough to say so.  Perhaps you haven’t met a Hobbit you could love yet, but that doesn’t mean you never will.”

“I won’t,” Bilbo said.

“I don’t know,” Dáin said.  “I’m not sure life is as predictable as that.  I would never have thought I would be king under the Lonely Mountain, yet here I am.  How can you know what may happen?”

“I met a Dwarf I could love,” Bilbo said.  _And now he is gone_.

Dáin said nothing.  Bilbo looked ahead down the road, but they were in a dip, and the Elves weren’t visible ahead anymore.  He wished he hadn’t told Dáin how he felt about Thorin.  Why had he?  He hadn’t told anyone, and the first person he decided to tell was a Dwarf he barely knew! Though decided was an overstatement—he had opened his mouth and out it had popped.  He sought to turn the subject.

“Do you have expectations for this meeting with the Elves?” he asked. “Your relationship with Thranduil is certainly an improvement on Thorin’s.”

“It would be hard to have worse feelings towards Thranduil than Thorin,” Dáin said with that small quirk to his lips.  “I can’t blame him.  Thranduil abandoned them to their fate.  I hope to do better without such a grudge between us. But…” His voice trailed off.

“You don’t quite trust him,” Bilbo said.

“I don’t,” Dáin said.  “And I don’t like to be threatened.  That’s a coward’s way.”

“He isn’t a coward,” Bilbo said.  “He fought valiantly at the Battle of Five Armies.  If he has any fear, it is of a more unworldly creature than you or I.  I believe he feared the Necromancer.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t fear the Necromancer,” Dáin said.  “Are you trying to encourage me?  If so, you should stop.  You’re not very good at it.”

“You wouldn’t have asked me to come with you to greet the Elves if you wanted to intimidate them,” Bilbo said.

“Have you figured out my strategy, then?” Dáin asked.  _If his lips keep twitching like that, he may find himself actually smiling_ , Bilbo thought _._

“I don’t have any idea,” Bilbo said.  “But whatever else you intend, you certainly mean to lull Thranduil into thinking you harmless and naive.  Beorn told us the Wood Elves were ‘less wise and more dangerous’ than their kin in Rivendell, but Thranduil isn’t stupid.  And he’s known many Dwarves in his life.”

“Some of them must have been stupid and trusting,” Dáin said. “Maybe I can seem another in that mould.”

As they came out of the low part of the road, Bilbo could see the Elves in the distance.  There were four—no, five—of them, but they were too far away for Bilbo to see their features. If he knew any of them, he couldn’t tell yet.

“I’ll do what I can to further your deception,” Bilbo said.  “But if they are offended by the attempt, this may cause difficulties for you.”

“Call it an exaggeration, not a deception,” Dáin said.  “I do my best for my people, but Thorin I’m not.”

Bilbo stopped dead in the road and stared at him. _This Dwarf—_

He saw it now.  Dáin was not Thorin, but neither was he a Dwarf one would typically ignore when he entered a room.  Yet Bilbo remembered how he had come when Bard and Balin negotiated for Bard’s share, pushing the heavy pallet of gold as if he were any ordinary Dwarf. He had done it on purpose. He deliberately attempted to fade into any group of Dwarves, so that he seemed to be one of them… And his simple manner of speech and unpretentious mien would lend itself to the facade.

There was no hiding he was a warrior; but most Dwarves were, even those like Ori and Óin, who had chosen gentle professions.

The Elves might not believe him harmless; but they would see the roughly hewn, blunt war hammer, not the guileful mind that had—without a word of either persuasion or deception—seen the Master happily away from the Lonely Mountain with only a fraction of the gold he would otherwise have purloined. 

“Are you practising on me?” he asked.  “You are quite as dangerous as Thorin was, and in many of the same ways.  More, too—Thorin was never subtle.”

Dáin smiled—a full smile, spread over his entire face.  _He has dimples_ , Bilbo noted. His smile was as striking as Thorin’s; and they were equally sparing with their smiles, so when they did smile, such beautiful smiles…

 _Oh dear_ , he thought. _Dangerous indeed._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see [that dangerous smile](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/106788745988/a-reminder-or-two-of-what-this-guys-smile-looks) of Dáin's?


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps ten minutes after Bilbo had learnt the danger of Dáin Ironfoot’s smile—not the subtle twitch of the lips he usually used to express amusement, but a proper smile— they met the Elven delegation.  Bilbo couldn’t say what they had discussed during that time. He had responded to Dáin as manners required, but he was discomfited by his reaction to that wide smile. If Dáin noticed his distraction, he said nothing of it; and then the Elves were before them.

“Well met!” Dáin greeted them.  “Not a bad day for travel, is it?  Master Baggins and I have enjoyed our walk.”

The lead Elf nodded, all gracious condescension.  Bilbo smiled his best ‘come for tea’ smile as he covertly examined the Elves.  The makeup of the Elven party conveyed some subtle message, he was sure; but it was lost on him.  He thought it was probably lost on all but the Elves.  He recognised only one—the one who had spoken when the Elves first conveyed Thranduil’s demands to Dáin.  That one now directed his horse to approach the lead Elf and whispered in his ear.

“I bring greetings from Thranduil Elf King, to Dáin, King under the Mountain,” the lead Elf said.  “I am Laerorn.”

Dáin inclined his head in response.  Thorin would have somehow conveyed sovereignty with that same sparse gesture, Bilbo thought.  Dáin’s nod seemed to express only ‘ _you have the right Dwarf._ ’

“Welcome to the Lonely Mountain,” he said.  “Shall we continue?  We saw you coming from the Gates, and Dwarves are preparing rooms. Warm fires and refreshments will be waiting.”

The Elf nodded.  “Thank you; we will follow.”

Dáin and Bilbo turned to lead the way back to Erebor.  The Elves had to hold their horses back so as not to tromp all over them, and Bilbo felt they were breathing down his neck the entire way.  It was uncomfortable, and he didn’t feel right continuing his conversation with Dáin while the Elves could overhear them…all and all it was an awkward journey, silent and strained, though he did his best to seem jovial and welcoming.

As they approached the Gates, Balin stepped out to greet them, and Dáin turned the Elves over to his care.  Some Dwarves took their horses one direction as Balin led the Elves away in another, and a self-conscious Bilbo was left standing there with Dáin.

“Thank you,” he said.  “For walking with me.  I quite enjoyed having company.”

Dáin’s lips quirked, and Bilbo felt an imprudent desire to try to coax another proper smile out of him.

“I was going out myself,” he said, “and I was also glad for company. I hope I can join you again another time.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said.  _Really?_ _It’s going to be awkward conversation interspersed with long silences again. But perhaps he is simply being polite._

They made their goodbyes, and Bilbo hurried off to find Ori. He would likely know what the plans were for treating with the Elves; and if he didn’t, he’d want to hear about their arrival.

Ori had heard only that the Elves came and knew little else, but he invited Bilbo to join him and his brothers for dinner.  Bilbo told them how he had walked with Dáin to meet the Elves.

“I’m still not entirely sure what he means by it,” he said. “It’s not at all the way Thorin would have done things.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” Ori replied.  “Thorin and Elves, especially Thranduil…  I can’t imagine Thorin being able to accomplish anything productive.  Start a war, yes; actually listen to what Elves have to say?  No.  I’d like to see if Dáin can handle them better.  But I would think starting off in such a way would hamper his position when it comes time to negotiate.”

Nori shook his head.  “No, if they underestimate him, then they may give up more than they mean to. It’s not a bad idea.”

“Well, I’ve done my part,” Bilbo said.  “Now it’s up to him to take it further.”

The ‘Ur brothers wandered in after a while, and Óin too, so it was quite a Company gathering in the end.  Bilbo lingered after dinner to visit with his friends.

“I don’t see you around much,” Bofur said.  “Where are you hiding yourself these days?”

Bilbo gave the sparsest description of his days possible.  It was no good to dwell on the difficulties; and he wanted to enjoy a relaxed evening, not explain all the ways he still felt the pain of Thorin’s death and how demanding he found his responsibilities in recovering the mountain’s dwellings.

“So I’m quite busy,” he concluded, “but in future I will be better about finding time to see all of you!  I see the ‘Ri brothers every day, and so often I hear what you are doing from them, but it’s not the same as seeing you myself.”

“You’d better,” Bofur said.  “Or we’ll have to Hobbit-nap you, and I don’t think you’d care to be strapped to my back while I work at shoring up the city’s supports.  But how else can we keep you from escaping, stealthy Hobbit that you are?”  He shook his head.  “Smaug near destroyed the supporting pillars.  Every day I’m surprised the city doesn’t fall down around our ears.”

“Don’t tell me that!” Bilbo exclaimed.  “And I _do_ promise to keep up with you—no Hobbit-napping will be required.”

He left his friends with many cheerful goodbyes and wandered his way down to Thorin’s tomb.  For a moment he considered going home instead of to Thorin that evening, but in the end it was too much for him to contemplate.  And he felt a bit guilty, too; because while Stonehelm and he had never made explicit their agreement to meet at the crypt each evening, Bilbo knew they had made such a pact nonetheless.

When he reached the Durins’ resting place, Stonehelm was there, despite the late hour; and he seemed angry at first.

“You never come so late,” he said.  “Where have you been?”

“Dinner with the Company,” Bilbo replied.  “Some goodly portion of the Company, at any rate. I have been neglecting them, and they told me so today.”

Stonehelm grimaced.  “I can’t fault you for that,” he said.  “Or them, either.  I got used to expecting you, I suppose, and forgot others have a claim to your company.”

“If you didn’t come one evening, I would miss you too,” Bilbo said. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to let you know I would be late.”  He paused. “I’m not sure how I could, actually; I don’t know where you live or much about what you do with yourself when you’re not here.”

“That’s the way I like it,” Stonehelm grinned.  “That way if I don’t want to see you, I don’t have to.”

“I like that!” Bilbo said.  He sighed.  “You didn’t need to wait, but I’m glad you did.”  He settled next to Stonehelm to begin his quiet observance at Fíli’s side. Stonehelm remained for a while before slipping off.  Bilbo didn’t notice him leave; but when he stood to go to Kíli, Stonehelm was gone. He finished his vigil in solitary silence.

The next morning when Bilbo arrived at the library, Ori was waiting.

“Dáin asks if you would come to see him today instead of attending to your usual duties,” he said.  “He said ‘please.’”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows.  “You seem shocked,” he said.

“Well,” Ori said.  “I am a little. Did you _ever_ hear Thorin say ‘please?’”

Bilbo thought.

And thought.

And finally snorted.  “No, not once,” he said.  “I concede the point.  You may lead the way.”

Ori took Bilbo to one of the only modest chambers Bilbo had seen in Erebor, then excused himself.  The room seemed a perfectly reasonable size to host a gathering of a dozen people or so, and the ceiling was only—oh, twelve feet high, he would guess. Given the usual way of Erebor’s architecture, he wondered if it had been a closet before Dáin decided to use it as a discreet place to confer with his advisors.  But whatever its previous purpose had been, it seemed ideal to Bilbo now, who was tired of feeling dwarfed wherever he went. He chuckled at himself. Dwarfed!  If he were a Dwarf, he guessed the size of the rooms wouldn’t bother him.

Only Balin was present in addition to Dáin and Bilbo.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling genially at Bilbo as he entered.

Dáin looked up from the mess of parchment in front of him.

“Indeed, good morning to you, Bilbo,” he said, “and thank you for coming. I am considering how to handle our newly arrived guests, and would be grateful for your advice.”

“Don’t be grateful yet,” Bilbo said, “as I haven’t given you any; and it may be bad advice when I do.  But I wish you both a good morning, and I will do my best!”

“That’s all I ask,” Dáin replied.  “Please, sit.”  Bilbo did, and Dáin leant back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, and regarded him. “How well do you know Thranduil?”

“Not well at all,” Bilbo said.  “I observed him briefly while searching for where the Company was imprisoned in his Halls, and I have spoken to him once.  If I must speculate:  he cares most of all about his own demesne.  He will exert himself within the boundaries of Mirkwood; but otherwise I think him unlikely to stir himself.”

“That fits with his ultimatum,” Balin said.  “He won’t bother laying siege, but he won’t allow us to pass through his woods either.  It was the same when he came with the Men to the mountain after Smaug was killed. He was happy to wait us out when Bard wanted to fight.”

“And he’s willing to put the Men in the middle,” Dáin said. “So:  devoted to his own people and the Woodland Realm but uncaring about the wider world, willing to manipulate others and allow them to suffer in pursuit of his goals, and lazy.”

“I would say patient instead of lazy,” Bilbo said, and Dáin nodded.

“Yes, I see your point,” he said.  He frowned at the parchment in front of him.  “And this delegation?  What sort of instruction do you think he has given them?”

Bilbo shook his head.  “I couldn’t begin to guess.  They will make their statement, I assume; and you will respond—and then what will they do? When Thranduil sent the two before, he gave them permission only to relay his demand—they had no authority to negotiate at all.  I assume these must, but who can say how much or what it is?”

Balin leant on the table, his arms crossed.

“What will you do?” he asked.  “It seems to me you have three choices:  give in, send them away empty-handed, or attempt to come to some compromise.”

“Not give in,” Dáin said.  “I don’t care about his ‘white gems;’ but if I give them over without any show of strength, what prevents Thranduil from trying again with something else? And it sits badly with me, giving way before his bullying.”

“So call his bluff?” Bilbo asked.  “Refuse to deal and send this delegation away?”

Dáin sighed.  “I don’t like that either.  The Men will suffer for it—and may choose to side with the Elves against us, and whatever the Men do we will remain at odds with the Elves.”  He shook his head.  “No, I don’t like it.”

“Negotiate a compromise, then,” Balin said.  “Show that you won’t be intimidated, but that you can be reasonable.”

“Ideally, yes,” Dáin said.  He frowned at the table again.

“But?” Bilbo prompted. 

Dáin exhaled loudly.  “I’ve had Dwarves searching since the Elves first made their demand,” he said. “I’ve no idea where these white gems could be.”

Balin sat back.  “That is a problem.”

They sat in silence.

“Stall, then,” Bilbo said.

Dáin nodded.  “Stall.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter six: _Dáin exhaled loudly. “I’ve had Dwarves searching since the Elves first made their demand,” he said. “I’ve no idea where these white gems could be.”_  
>  _“Stall, then,” Bilbo said._  
>  _Dáin nodded. “Stall.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Bilbo teaches everyone how to play conkers, the Elves tell a story about the Silmarils, and Dáin gives Bilbo an unintentional lecture regarding the ecology of the mountain.
> 
> No, it's not _that_ bad! It's very interesting stuff! And what's the use of being completely sidetracked by the thematic possibilities and imagery of that ecology if ~~I don't inflict it~~ you don't understand it?
> 
> Besides, it _could_ have been floriography...really, you're getting off easy!
> 
> But as a result of all these exciting doings, this chapter is rather a bit longer than usual; and the next one will be a bit shorter than usual. I am v. v. annoyed with this story for not behaving itself, but the chapters wouldn't break apart into nicely consistent pieces. So enjoy the extra bit this week, because it's coming out of next week's word count...

***

Although Bilbo had agreed to help Dáin however he could while the Elven delegation was with them, he was pleased to find that these duties did not consume all his time. Most of his day was spent with the Elves, but he was able to save part of the afternoon for his walks as well. He did miss his mornings in the library. The repair and restoration work was painstaking and tedious, but the parchments and books themselves were fascinating.

Cleaning the homes for the Dwarves arriving every day to the Lonely Mountain…that he was happy to relinquish.

Dáin seemed determined to treat the Elves’ visit as a series of social occasions, with himself cast in the role of genial and dull-witted host, albeit one with good advisors and a strong army behind him. Bilbo supposed if the king were to successfully stall the negotiations, he had to occupy the Elves’ time somehow. There seemed no end to the tours of this or that historical area of Erebor, currently under restoration (indeed, almost all of the great city met that description), or receptions honouring the Elves, hosted by this Dwarf Lord or that one; and Bilbo attended every one of them. 

Bilbo himself was even persuaded into hosting a “Hobbit Cultural Exhibition” one day. It involved all six Hobbit meals, a conkers tournament in the morning (that was quite entertaining, and Laerorn and Ori both turned out to be naturals, though Bilbo still won handily), his solitary afternoon constitutional becoming an uneven parade of a mixed dozen of Elves and Dwarves, and singing and dancing in the evening. Bilbo worked closely with the kitchens to ensure that the meals served were as authentic as possible, and a ramble on the mountainside is a ramble on the mountainside, but the singing and dancing were primarily Dwarvish. Bilbo had never learnt to play an instrument, and he was the only Hobbit this side of the Misty Mountains. Despite his protests he was prevailed upon to sing a traditional Hobbit song or two; but as he didn’t know the Dwarves’ dances, he sat with Dáin for that part of the evening. Dáin wore his mask of complacent stupidity, so Bilbo didn’t try to engage him in a conversation which could only be insipid. He thought they both watched the Elves as much as the dancing, though at times he felt Dáin’s eyes resting on him also.

The Elves sat apart and observed in a worrisome silence. Bilbo remembered the parties in Thranduil’s Halls. Elves loved singing and dancing, but this evening couldn’t be prevailed upon to join in either activity. Bilbo hoped it was discomfort with the setting or snobbishness, rather than growing vexation with the delay.

Bilbo’s favourite part of the evening occurred after supper, when the Company spontaneously burst into “That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates,” complete with dishes flying and tumbling through the air. It was a far less nervous business when the dishes involved weren’t his own, but he thought—though none of them said—that the performance was bittersweet for all of them. Fíli and Kíli were greatly missed.

“This was your introduction to Dwarves?” Dáin asked him afterwards. “You are an extraordinarily patient Hobbit.”

“I would say instead that I was outnumbered and overrun,” Bilbo said with a laugh. “But it worked out in the end, I suppose. Dwarves make a terrible mess of a dinner party, but they clean up quite well. In the morning, I wouldn’t have known they had ever been there, but for my bare pantry and the contract Thorin left on the mantel.”

“Aye,” Bofur chimed in. “But we haven’t really given you the full treatment this evening, have we? Not sure I could make you faint anymore, though! Hearing about a Dragon after you’ve already faced him—anti-climatic, that’s what that is.”

“He did live up to the description,” Bilbo said. “No one can say I didn’t have fair warning!”

But such stalling tactics only worked for so long. When the Elves went from asking when their negotiations would take place through pointed questions to furious demands—Dáin had to give in at last. The morning the talks would begin, Bilbo joined Dáin and Balin for an early breakfast.

“Nothing yet?” Balin asked.

“Nothing,” Dáin said. “Crews of Dwarves have searched night and day, every Dwarf I can spare and some I can’t; but the Treasury was bad enough before, and with Smaug adding to the hoard… Sorting through it all for a handful of gems is an impossible task. It’s going to be years to set things straight in there, and no one has the least idea where the stones might have been stored in the first place.”

“Not to mention, Smaug rolled in it like a pig in a wallow,” Bilbo said. “So everything he added and all that was already there are all jumbled up. What will you do? Will you tell the Elves you can’t find the white gems?”

“Today, the great Dwarf Lord Balin son of Fundin will open our discussions by offering an educated discourse on the history of happy coexistence between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of the Woodland Realm,” Dáin said.

“By which he means, I’m to give a bloody long lecture,” Balin said.

“Glossing over the part where Thrór asked Thranduil to pay him tribute,” Dáin added.

“Well,” Bilbo said. “That’ll do for an hour or two, I suppose. Then what?”

“Then we invite the Elves to tell the history of Dwarf-Elf relations from their perspective,” Dáin answered.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Bilbo said.

The corner of Dáin’s mouth twitched. “Must you sound surprised?”

“You will frame it as an important basis for beginning this dialogue, I suppose; and the start of a new chapter of cooperation and alliance between the Lonely Mountain and the Mirkwood,” Bilbo said.

“That’s not a bad idea either,” Balin said.

“Thank you,” Bilbo replied. “Let’s leave out the part about Thranduil imprisoning the Company and the subsequent escape, don’t you think?”

“Probably for the best,” Balin said with a chuckle.

“Well then,” Dáin said. “That takes us as far as lunchtime, I hope. After lunch we’ll have to parlay a bit, but I intend to ask the Elves to present their request to the full assembly of Dwarf Lords under the mountain.”

“How does that gain you time?” Bilbo asked. “More than another hour or so, I mean?”

“The Dwarf Lords are given three days to gather, and the assembly isn’t considered to be in session until 100% of the given Lords are present,” Balin explained. “So that’s three more days.”

“Dwarven politics aren’t so convoluted,” Dáin said. “A conclave of Lords normally only meets when the leader of one of the Seven Clans calls it. Business within a kingdom never involves a conclave. I don’t think the Elves will know that, however. But in the end—we’re making this up as we go.”

“Next the conclave of Lords debates, of course,” Bilbo said. “Before presenting both sides of the argument to you for your consideration. And you retire for a day or so to deliberate. If you like, send them back to debating—say neither side has convinced you, or that you want two different recommendations, as the first ones won’t do.”

“Bilbo Baggins, you’re brilliant!” Dáin said with his rare smile. “You’ve gained us at least a week!”

“Two weeks, I should think,” Bilbo said. “Three if you have some talented speakers among the Lords. And as they must have a great many responsibilities, they can only meet in the afternoons, of course.”

“Of course,” Dáin said. He leant back in his chair, hands behind his head. “You’ve doubled the time we have to look for the cursed things. Perhaps I will put you in charge of the Treasury search as well. You can fix everything by your—what was it? Elevenses. Keep in mind we haven’t found Girion’s emeralds yet either. And after you’ve solved those problems, I’m sure there’ll be something else: invading Easterners or maybe another Necromancer…”

“I believe you would be better dealing with the first; and for the second you’ll want Gandalf or the Lady of Lórien, if she can be persuaded,” Bilbo said. “Nor will I be much help in the treasure hunt. But for ways to talk around an issue without ever coming to the point, I’m your Hobbit.”

“Also handy for a prison break or a spot of burglary,” Balin said.

***

For all the primary point of Balin’s “Discourse on the History of Happy Co-Existence between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of the Woodland Realm” was to waste time, Bilbo found it fascinating. Balin was a natural storyteller, and most of the history was new to Bilbo. The Elves sat blank-faced the entire time; but when Balin finished and Dáin invited the Elves to tell the story as they saw it, they were quite clearly caught off guard.

“We do not have a Keeper of Tales with us,” Laerorn said.

“You don’t need one,” Bilbo said. “Your perspective is as valuable, for you have lived through many of these events. And we seek to find a place of mutual understanding, not a historical record. Surely at least one of you can relate the past as you have experienced it.”

Laerorn seemed taken aback but not averse to the idea.

“Perhaps each of you might share a part in the telling,” Bilbo added. “But I can see that we have surprised you.” He looked to Dáin. “With the king’s permission? Might I suggest that the Elves be given an opportunity to retire so they might discuss how best to explain their perspective?”

Dáin’s face remained solemn aside from the barely visible twitch of a smile Bilbo had learnt to look for.

“Thank you, Master Baggins, for your excellent suggestion,” he said. “Let’s retire for today so our guests may prepare. And if you need more than a day, you must take it. Three days, or a week—we will be happy to give you all the time you need. Would you like to send to the Woodland Realm for a—what was it—a Keeper of Tales?”

“A day will be sufficient, your Majesty,” Laerorn said. He seemed to have caught on to the purpose of this diversion, for his smile was wry; but he didn’t protest. Perhaps he was a wise enough politician to know that the opportunity to tell the king under the mountain the Elven account of the past was worth seizing, even if it was another delay to their purpose. He bowed and led the delegation away.

Once they were gone, Dáin sighed in relief.

“Again I owe you a debt, Bilbo,” he said with a smile. “One more day.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said. “But do try not to lay it on so thick next time. I don’t think Laerorn caught on until you suggested they might need a week to prepare.”

Dáin did more than smile at that—he laughed.

And so the next day they gathered to hear Aerandir (Bilbo had learnt that was the name of the Elf who had come to Erebor with Thranduil’s demands the first time) share the history of Dwarf-Elf relations.

“I stand before you to recount the life of Elu Thingol, High King of the Sindarin Elves and King of Doriath, who lived at the birth of the First Age,” Aerandir began.  
Next to him, Dáin tensed; but when Bilbo chanced a glance at him, his face showed only an attentive curiosity. And as Aerandir continued his tale, Dáin seemed to force himself to relax. Bilbo wondered why the history of an Elf from so long ago would cause Dáin concern, but he couldn’t ask without being unspeakable rude to Aerandir. He would wait.

Aerandir was as compelling a storyteller as Balin in his own way, if his style was a bit formal for Bilbo’s taste. Soon enough Bilbo understood why Dáin felt some discomfort hearing this tale. The Elves had not chosen their story to celebrate some occasion of cooperation between their people and the Dwarves. Bilbo wasn’t sure what they hoped to accomplish with the tale, unless it was perhaps a moral high ground from which negotiations would begin in their favour; or to prod Dáin into proving he was different from these long dead Dwarves.

Or simply to convey their general disdain for Dwarves of any Age or place.

He wondered if this was some cause of the dislike between the two races. For Dwarves, these events occurred full across Middle Earth, generations upon generations ago; and perhaps to the Elves, if they seemed to forget… Elves lived long lives, and for many of them, these events had happened in their lifetimes. Dwarven dismissal of the story as irrelevant would seem disrespectful and callous. 

Bilbo thought Dáin too intelligent to fall into that trap, but how would he react to such a pointed tale? He didn’t know.

There was a long silence after Aerandir finished his tale and returned to his seat.

“A fair telling,” Dáin said at last. “The history of the Silmarils is a tragic one.” He had dropped his dull-witted demeanour. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he did it a-purpose or not. Dáin had clearly been agitated by the tale though he strove to hide it. 

“The Silmarils?” Bilbo asked.

“The jewel Thingol asked the Dwarves of Nogrod to set in the Nauglamír,” Laerorn said. “There were three. It is said that their beauty was unmatched in all the world.”

“The Dwarves of Nogrod murdered Thingol for the Silmaril now known as Ëarendil’s Star,” Aerandir added.

Dáin tensed at the word “murder” but didn’t contradict Aerandir’s statement.

“Yet their descendants now thrive in the Iron Hills,” the Elf continued.

“The people of that sad city can hardly be said to have ‘thrived,’” Dáin said. “Many were killed in retribution for Thingol’s death, and even more perished in the breaking of the Ered Luin.”

“Yet some survived to emigrate to Moria, and then further to the East when Moria was abandoned,” Aerandir said.

“You are right,” Dáin replied. “The genocide was not complete. You seem to regret it.” He stood and paced the floor before abruptly turning to confront Laerorn. “You chose well if you want to remind us that all has not been harmonious between Elves and Dwarves through the Ages, but the history of the Silmarils—that tale bites everyone. The Elves succumbed to greed and violence in their pursuit as much as any other creature.”

Laerorn seemed satisfied by something in Dáin’s reply, though Bilbo couldn’t tell what it was—perhaps it was simply Dáin’s abandoning his pretended dullness. Aerandir seemed not at all satisfied.

“There has been cooperation between our peoples,” Balin added. “Celebrimbor and Narvi created the West-Gate of Khazad-dûm in a time of peace and respect between our peoples. Many a battle Dwarves and Elves have fought side by side.”

Dáin nodded. “And Ëarendil’s Star shines on all of us, Dwarf and Elf—and Hobbit and Man—alike.” He paused. “Thank you for your tale. I will ponder its lessons. We’ll meet again in this place tomorrow morning.”

Aerandir quickly stood. “Maedhros cast himself into the earth,” he said. “Ëarendil’s Star is set high above Middle Earth, and Maglor threw the Silmaril that came to him into the sea, but Maedhros cast himself and the one that came to him into the fiery pit.”

Dáin’s eyebrows rose.

“You are dismissed until tomorrow,” he stated tersely.

“We have not done more than tell our tale this day,” Laerorn protested. “I insist that you hear our king’s demands.”

“When you are prepared to deal forthrightly with me, we will speak!” Dáin roared. “Do you think I will happily give Thranduil the white gems he covets, thinking that I have kept the greater prize? If I had a Silmaril, I would toss it into the pit myself. They may have been beautiful, but they brought nothing but doom to whoever wanted them. Including the Dwarves of Nogrod.”

“The tales of the Arkenstone all tell of its rare beauty,“ Aerandir said.

Dáin snorted. “What Thranduil means in sending such fools, I don’t know,” he said. “He has seen the Arkenstone himself. He has held it in his hands! It holds a rare beauty, yes; it is not a Silmaril, and Thranduil knows it.” He waved towards the door. “Get out, and don’t come back to me until you are prepared to discuss what your king actually wants.”

Laerorn seemed about to protest, but Dáin’s furious glare shut his mouth. He led the Elves out of the room, and Dáin collapsed into his chair. He ran his hands roughly through his hair before scrubbing his face and standing again.

“You don’t need to tell me, Balin,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Given these new developments—“ Balin said.

“We can consider strategy later,” Dáin said. “Not—I can’t right now.” He left the room.

Bilbo looked at Balin.

“I might follow him,” he said hesitantly.

Balin nodded. “Go on. I could use some time to think as well.”

Bilbo emerged from the conference chamber in time to see Dáin headed down a staircase that would lead him deeper into the mountain. He followed the Dwarf king carefully so as not to lose him, but soon he realised he could fall back. There was only one place Dáin could be going. He would give him some time alone.

When Bilbo arrived some half an hour later, Dáin still sat in the Durin tomb, at the base of Thorin’s sarcophagus.

“You’re early,” Dáin said without looking at him. “Don’t you usually come after dinner?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “But I’ve come to see you, not Thorin.”

“That’s a first,” Dáin replied.

Bilbo couldn’t answer that. He sat down next to the king. 

After a time, Dáin spoke. “I admired Thorin greatly,” he said. “I don’t know if you know it—I named my son for him.”

“I didn’t,” Bilbo replied.

“Thorin was young when Smaug came,” Dáin said. “I was only a babe, barely toddling after my mother’s skirts. I don’t remember a time when the Dwarves of Erebor had a home. When King Thrór called us to Azanulbizar, to drive the Orcs from our ancestral home, so that they might claim it again…” He paused. “I don’t know if you can imagine it. Thrór was a legend, and Erebor a great kingdom, and Moria our ancestral home…I was thirty-two years old and a romantic fool. When the Dwarves of the Iron Hills marched to Thrór’s call, I went.”

“Hobbits don’t come of age until thirty-three,” Bilbo said. “I thought the age of adulthood for Dwarves was older.”

“It’s more like seventy-five,” Dáin said. “But my father believed Thrór could do no wrong. If I hadn’t wanted to go, no one would have thought anything of it. I was too young. But I begged, and my father gave in.”

“Your father allowed you to go into battle so young as that?” Bilbo asked. “And it was such a battle…”

“He thought I’d carry water skins from camp to camp, or hone swords, or something safely back behind the lines,” Dáin said. “He was sure Thrór would have an easy victory.” He sighed. “That day was the first time I saw Thorin lead, and I could never forget it. He was indomitable: mere decades older than me, but the very image of what a Dwarf prince should be. I felt every bit of my callowness in comparison. And his battle only began there. The more abiding enemies were cold and hunger and suspicion, but every day he led Erebor’s Dwarves into battle against them. If he was daunted by the task, he never showed it.”

“I…” Bilbo couldn’t find a tactful way to say it.

Dáin sighed. “Why didn’t I send Dwarves with him?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Because he was a fool!” Dáin said. “He had _won_ the battle: the Dwarves of Erebor have lived in peace and prosperity in the Blue Mountains these thirty years now! But a great grey wizard with his own motives swings a key and a map in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t see anything but the Lonely Mountain anymore. He risked everything—his life, the lives of his heirs, everything he had gained for his people—all for an improbable dream.”

“You will beg my pardon, I hope,” Bilbo said. “But…”

“Go on,” Dáin said.

“I believe you are only the second prudent Dwarf I have met,” Bilbo said. “And Balin went with Thorin anyway. Did no one…”

“Many of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills also admired Thorin,” Dáin said. “But they follow where I lead. None questioned me.” He paused. “No, my son— I am not the Dwarf my father was; and though I admired Thorin, I didn’t think he was perfect. And the quest to reclaim Erebor I thought a foolish, doomed venture. When my son learnt of it, I forbad him to join. He was furious, and—“ His voice broke off.

“And?” Bilbo prompted, after what seemed to him a tactful enough wait.

“Dwarves hold grudges,” Dáin said. “He resented it, and when Thorin—my Thorin—heard that Thorin Oakenshield and his heirs had fallen… He hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“You acted out of a father’s rational concern!” Bilbo exclaimed. “He will understand in time.”

Dáin shook his head. “Dwarves hold grudges,” he repeated.

“Much like Elves, then,” Bilbo said.

Dáin smiled at him.

“Elves and Dwarves both: we’d do well to put ourselves in Hobbit hands, wouldn’t we?” he asked. “Would disputes be settled by a conkers tourney every morning?”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo said. “The proper time for settling disputes is at tea.” He paused. “It’s also a prime time for continuing a disagreement, of course; and on occasion beginning one.”

“I’ll have the practice instituted under the mountain immediately,” Dáin said. “This is your time to walk the fellfield, isn’t it? May I join you?” 

“Please do,” Bilbo replied. They retraced their path up to the city, then through the city to the gates. 

“What is the ‘fellfield’?” Bilbo asked as they stepped into the sunlight. The day was bright and cold: the sky a brilliant blue with nary a cloud, the wind brisk in their faces.

“This,” Dáin gestured to the area in which they walked. “It’s too high for trees, so there is no shade beyond the mountain’s shadow and no break for the wind. It’s a harsh life here—exposed to cold and the strong wind on the mountainside, soil more rock than loam, so it doesn’t hold much water… Below this grows the krummholz—where trees can live long enough to put down roots, but the wind twists them into strange shapes as they grow.”

“I remember the trees,” Bilbo said. “I wondered why they grew like that.”

“If you go higher up the mountain, less and less will grow, until finally nothing will survive,” Dáin said. “A tree is a sturdy thing when grown, but dependent on so much—soil and water and air. They can’t live here. The fellfield…it is a challenge to thrive here. Something living here has to be tough. Yet… While it’s covered with snow, you can’t see it—it looks like any other place. And when the spring thaw comes, it will be a grey and dreary mess. But come summer… Then the fellfield is one of the most beautiful places in the world.”

“You know a lot about it,” Bilbo said.

Dáin waved him off. His cheeks were pink from the cold.

“A pastime, no more,” he said. “Most Dwarves don’t care much about life on the skin of Middle-Earth. I take advantage of any somewhat tolerant audience.”

“You will find this audience more than tolerant,” Bilbo said. “It’s quite interesting. Very different from the Shire.”

They spoke a bit more about the ecology of the mountain, and Bilbo described the Shire to Dáin as best he could, and their time together passed quickly. When they returned to the Gates, a Dwarf awaited Dáin.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “we’ve found them.”

Bilbo gasped. “You’ve found the white gems?”

The Dwarf looked first to Dáin, who gestured that he should answer.

“No, Master Baggins—Your Majesty,” he said. “But we’ve found Girion’s emeralds.”

Dáin sighed and clapped the Dwarf on the shoulder. “Good work.” The Dwarf bowed and retreated, and Dáin turned to Bilbo, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Ah, well,” he said. “I like Bard better anyway.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to an anon ask on tumblr, determamfidd is complying [a list of Dáin-positive fics](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/108130962738/hi-im-sorry-to-ask-but-do-you-know-of-any-fics), and _Winter's Chill (lies Quiet on the Fellfield)_ is on it! Go check it out for some more great stories in which Dáin isn't a villain--and if your fav isn't on there, please rec it for the rest of us!
> 
> And like determamfidd, I tag such things as ["dáin ironfoot appreciation society,"](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/dain-ironfoot-appreciation-society) so that's the tag to watch for more...
> 
> And, if you're curious, [this](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/108169024753/so-tolkien-writes-that-girions-emerald-necklace) was my inspiration for Girion's emeralds.

***

 

A crew of Dwarves left for Dale before dawn, taking their tools for working stone and Girion’s emeralds with them.  Dáin hoped they might avoid the Elves’ notice if they could—and if they couldn’t, well—the desire to help the Men rebuild Dale would have to serve as their excuse.  Crews of Dwarves had traveled to Dale each fortnight since Bard had met with Balin to negotiate his share, lending their skill in stone work and engineering expertise to the Men. This group should seem only one more of the same.  Dáin had no intention of informing the Elves that Girion’s emeralds had been found.

 

“They seem likely to take it as a sign that you have the white gems in hand and are holding them back to be spiteful,” Bilbo agreed.  “It’s hard to believe they are related to the Elves of Imladris.  Beorn told us they were more dangerous and less wise.  It does seem to be proving true.”

 

If the Elves did notice the Dwarven party depart the mountain, they made no mention of it.  Bilbo hoped they were too preoccupied with their own concerns.  Their impassive faces gave no hint of their thoughts as they presented Thranduil’s demands to Dáin at last; but there was no mention of the Arkenstone or the Silmarils, only the white gems.

 

“And this is what Thranduil wants—all of it, with no additions of your own?” Dáin asked.

 

Laerorn nodded.

 

“Why should I give it to him?” Dáin asked, his visage as stony as the Elves’. Balin, Glóin, and a Dwarf from the Iron Hills sat beside him.  None of them blinked at the king’s bald question.

 

“It is a sign, is it not, that you wish to build good will between our peoples?” Laerorn replied.

 

Dáin snorted.  “Thranduil wants some pretty stones, but he’s not planning to leave his woods to get them and he offers nothing in trade for them.  He’s not coming out of the woods or trading with us now.  I see nothing to build good will here.”

 

“You may find it difficult to feed your people without freedom to pass through the woods,” Aerandir said.  “And the unfortunate Dwarves from the Ered Luin, coming all this way, crossing the dangerous Misty Mountains, only to find they are trapped in the Anduin Valley where Orcs run rampant, with nowhere to go but back where they came from… No one will save them from the spiders, should they attempt to cross the Woodland Realm.  They will be lucky if they end up in our prisons.”

 

Laerorn shot him a look, and he subsided; but from his smug expression, he believed he had made his point.

 

“You and your king are irked children, whining and threatening to throw their toys if they don’t get what they want,” Dáin answered.  “The world doesn’t revolve around the Mirkwood. If that’s all you have to say, go home.”

 

_Oh dear_ , Bilbo thought.  _I suppose he’s done stalling, then_.

 

“Think what you like about it, you will regret losing access to our woods when you cannot feed the Dwarves crawling out of the ground to come to your dank burrow,” Aerandir said.

 

“Be _silent_ , Aerandir,” Laerorn said.  “You prove his point about being a child throwing a tantrum.”

 

Aerandir’s glare was twice as vicious as the one Laerorn had shot him earlier.

 

“You are as thoughtlessly cruel as children as well,” Dáin said.  “The ones who will suffer from Thranduil’s interdict are the Men.  Look around you! You have been with us for near three weeks now!  Do you see us starving?  Have we struggled to feed you?  The Men are the ones who rely on your trade, not Dwarves.”  He shook his head.  “You ask the impossible simply by asking us to _find_ them, much less hand them over for no compensation; and you have given me no reason to bother trying.  We have too much to do here to waste time looking for pretty trinkets.”

 

“Let us leave aside the issue of compensation for the moment,” Laerorn said.   “You may not need our trade the way the Men do, but it’s true that those who come from the West will have an easier time coming through the Woodland Realm if they have the king’s consent.  And would you begin your reign with a hostile neighbour on your border, isolating you from all? Will you go to war over what you see as ‘pretty stones?’  We can forge a truce here, and both our peoples will benefit.”

 

“I was willing to fight you for Thorin’s sake, because he asked it, with no gain for me,” Dáin said.  “You _and_ the Men.  Do you think I’ll do less now that I rule here?”  He leant forward, and if Bilbo had thought he was angry before—before he was merely irritated.  “I have been Lord of the Iron Hills since I was a youth of fifty-eight and needed to bargain for the support I needed to hold the Hills in more than name.  Before I was an adult I ruled in truth, and those who tried to manipulate me as if I was still a powerless whelp learnt that I will meet respect with respect, and peaceful intentions I will honour with peace in my turn.  Threats and scheming—those I will meet with steel.  Let Thranduil deal with me accordingly.  If he wants these stones enough to fight for them, my axe awaits.”

 

Bilbo sighed.  _I should have known he seemed too reasonable.  He’s Thorin’s cousin, after all; and it seems he can share his temper._ Briefly he scrubbed his face with his hands before directing an apologetic look at Balin, a scowl at Dáin, and facing the Elves once more.

 

“Dáin seems to have forgotten the most salient point, and you seem not to have heard it,” he said.  “What Thranduil wants is _not possible_.  The gems can’t be found.”

 

Balin sighed heavily.  Dáin and Glóin both growled; the other Dwarf seemed too shocked to respond.

 

“What do you mean by ‘can’t?’” Laerorn asked.

 

“I mean the Dwarves have _been_ searching the Treasury for them and they _haven’t_ been _able_ to find them, and right now their labour is _better spent elsewhere_ ,” Bilbo replied.  “You are very impatient for such a long-lived people. Why don’t you work on the good will part now, and let Dáin tell you when he’s ready to talk about gems?”

 

“How hard can it be?” Laerorn persisted.

 

The Dwarves seemed too shocked to answer.  If not quite equal to Thorin’s majestic fury, Dáin’s glower was nevertheless intimidating.  But someone had to be sensible, and clearly it was beyond Dwarves and Elves both.

 

He supposed it would have to be the Hobbit.

 

“Imagine the lowest level of Thranduil’s Halls is filled to the brim with nuts,” Bilbo said.  “Nuts of all sorts—primarily acorns, but also walnut and pecan and hickory.  Perhaps they’re even stacked neatly by type. Now imagine a great squirrel, as large as a fifty-year oak, tore a hole in the roof and poured another mess of acorns on top of that—its whole winter’s supply, enough to fill up the next level too; and then the squirrel hopped in the Halls and rolled around in the acorns, throwing them into the air and mixing them up as he nestled into his new home.  And then imagine: when you have finally ousted the squirrel, the next day someone knocked on your door and said, ‘I’d like to have this particular chestnut, please; and do hurry.’”

 

Bilbo nodded firmly, crossed his arms, and leant back in his chair. Elves and Dwarves alike seemed speechless, then Dáin began to laugh.

 

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” he said.  “I forgot I was better off placing my quandaries in your hands.” He turned to Laerorn with a self-depreciating twist to his near-smile.  “He is right.  In the end, Thranduil will act as he will, and I will respond accordingly; but the truth is we can’t give you what we don’t have, and I’ve wasted too much Dwarven labour looking for the wretched things already when we are only beginning to repair our home.”

 

“Is it really so…” Laerorn began.

 

“Yes,” Bilbo and the Dwarves replied in tandem.

 

Laerorn pursed his lips and looked to the other Elves before returning his attention to Dáin.

 

“If I am to go back to Thranduil and convince him to wait, I must see the Dragon’s horde,” he said.  “I must be able to tell him I have seen it with my own eyes.”

 

“No,” Dáin said.  The other Dwarves nodded their agreement.

 

“Do you expect Thranduil to accept this as an answer when I tell him I took your word for it?” Laerorn asked.

 

“I don’t care whether he does or not,” Dáin said.  “None but a Dwarf will ever view the Treasury.”

 

“Why not?” Bilbo asked.  “I have. It’s just a tremendous pile of gold and what have you.”

 

Dáin glowered at Bilbo.

 

“You, Master Burglar, are an exception,” he said.  “You saw it first when it was Smaug’s horde.  It is in Dwarven hands again, and that makes it Erebor’s Treasury once more.”

 

“It’s not even contained to the Treasury yet,” Bilbo muttered.  “I’d call it a Dragon horde still.”

 

“ _Thank_ you, Master Baggins,” Dáin said.  He faced the Elves.  “Let’s retire for today.  If you have anything new to say, I’ll hear it tomorrow.”

 

Subdued, the Elves nodded and left.  The Dwarves turned to look at Bilbo, all four of them, the same disgruntled look on all four faces. 

 

Bilbo shrugged.  “If you treat people like rational adults instead of petulant children, sometimes that’s what they turn out to be.  Why can’t they see the Treasury?  Do you think one of them is going to stuff his pockets full?”  The Dwarves’ faces didn’t change much, but Bilbo knew Dwarves. He leapt to his feet. “You _do_! Stubborn, greedy—even if one _did_ , it would be worth it for them to know how hopeless what they ask is! They might go home and stop wasting our time!”

 

“I don’t trust Elves,” Glóin said stoutly.

 

“But what could they possibly _do_?”  Bilbo looked imploringly to Balin and Dáin.  Both of them wore the same intractable expression.

 

“I’m willing to negotiate with them,” Balin said.  “I’ll trust that far.  But the Treasury is the hidden heart of Erebor, and its secrets are not for them to know.”

 

“It’s hardly hidden,” Bilbo said tartly.  “It’s down three levels and to the left.”

 

“Enough,” Dáin said.  “Thank you, Bilbo. If you don’t understand it, I don’t know how to explain it to you.  Show the Elves the Treasury…  No.  I’ll go to war first.”

 

“Dwarves!” Bilbo sputtered.  “Stone heads in stone helmets!”  He spun on his heel and marched out the door.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed; and Bilbo finds himself once again caught between Dwarf and Elf.

***

Bilbo was still out of charity with Dwarves and their wretched Treasury when Dáin found him perched on a boulder overlooking the Celduin far below.

“What you ask—“ Dáin began to say. Without looking away from the river frothing and churning as it poured out of the mountain to run down to Dale, Bilbo interrupted him.

“No, I quite understand,” he said. “Thorin learnt to trust me, and then we stepped into that vast pile of dross and nothing I had done for him mattered anymore.”

“I am not Thorin,” Dáin said through gritted teeth.

“No,” Bilbo replied. “But one Dwarf seems to be much like another when it comes to gold.”

Dáin pulled Bilbo to his feet and spun him around. He closed one large hand around Bilbo’s nape and pulled him close so that Dáin’s forehead leant against his.

_What was he doing?_

“I suppose you’re not the first Dwarf to want to pull my hair out by the roots, either,” Bilbo said weakly.

Dáin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The warmth of his exhalation chased away the day’s chill for a moment; and then it was back, colder than before for the contrast. His thumb and fingers rubbed gently along the base of Bilbo’s skull before sifting through the curls at his nape.

“These curls…” he said. “Your hair is the colour of the honey we gather, at home in the Hills. As summer fades, goldenrod covers the Iron Hills; and the honey the bees make from it—it’s the purest, darkest colour that could still be called gold.”

“Pardon?” Bilbo said.

“Master Baggins,” Dáin said quietly. “Bilbo. Any thoughts I have had of my hands in your hair have been carnal.”

Bilbo jerked away from him and nearly fell off the rock.

Dáin laughed sourly. “Not like Thorin in your mind now, am I?”

Bilbo stared at him in shock.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“When a Dwarf looks at another Dwarf—or Hobbit, as the case may be—in admiration—“ Dáin said.

“Stop it,” Bilbo said. “I had no idea you thought of me at all.”

“When would you notice?” Dáin asked. “In the long hours you have toiled to restore this city for the sake of his dream? When you linger at his tomb each evening? You don’t see me. We have spent hours together in these past weeks: planning how to handle the cursed Elves, distracting them, meeting with them. But that has been a busy and stressful affair, so I see why you might not have noticed then. We were focused on other things. But when we have walked the fellfield together, whether we speak or not… I have not hidden it. I wouldn’t know how. If you had ever seen me sure, you couldn’t miss it. Since we walked out to meet the Elves and you spoke to me of your family, and I saw your charm, your wit, your willing nature—I was captivated then and I have only grown more so. But Thorin has always stood between us. When have you ever looked and seen me, not some shabby replacement for the true king under the mountain?”

Bilbo stared at him. Dáin ran his hands through his hair before dropping his arms to his sides and shaking his head.

“I apologise,” he said. “You have no reason to think of me. I only—“ He paused, took a deep breath, and began again. “I am sensitive to it. I compare myself to Thorin as well—I think everyone who knew him compares us.” He turned and walked away, but before he had gone a dozen steps he stopped and turned to face Bilbo again. “I would like to be seen for myself. I can’t ask you to care for me when you don’t. I can’t ask you to do all you do for Erebor for my sake instead of his. I wouldn’t. I see how you mourn him in it, and how you honour him in it as well. But when you look at me—“ He broke off for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. “When you look at me, I see you looking for Thorin. How am I like him, how do I differ… I’m not a faulty casting. Good or ill, like or unlike, I would like to be seen for myself.” 

He met Bilbo’s eyes once more before turning and walking away. Bilbo watched him until he was out of sight, then allowed himself to collapse onto the rock in shock.

It was less than four months since Thorin’s death; did Dáin think… Even if Bilbo’s heart could turn to another, it would not be so quick as that. It was cruel to ask it.

And he did see Dáin for himself; it was unfair to say he didn’t. Of course Bilbo had avoided Dáin at first for the memories and regret for Thorin’s death he had raised in him, and Bilbo had resented Dáin for surviving to become king under the mountain, when it was Thorin’s mountain and Thorin who should be king. It was only natural that a newly crowned king should be compared to the one whose place he filled.

He remembered what Stonehelm had told him: that he could see how much Bilbo loved Thorin. He supposed everyone must be able to see it, then, though he had told no one.

Though he had told Dáin. Not that it was Thorin; but that he had loved a Dwarf, and lost him too. It was not a difficult puzzle, he supposed. Who else but Thorin could it have been—magnificent, stubborn, brave Thorin? Did Dáin think _he_ could fill Thorin’s place in Bilbo’s heart?

Oh, Valar. Dáin was right. He did. If he saw Dáin at all, it was only as an inferior substitute for Thorin. His stomach churned. He didn’t know if he felt guilt or anger or pity—all at once, he supposed.

He didn’t know what Dáin expected him to do about any of it.

Bilbo turned back to the Celduin. The river was a frothy white, its sparkle dulled under the clouded sky. Its waters held no answers for him. He sighed and turned to walk towards the Gates of Erebor. The dark grey of wet stone and earth, with patches of brown from the dormant plant life, covered the fellfield. Patches of wet ice dotted it as well; Bilbo could see that they were smaller than they had been only a few days prior. Spring was coming.

Dáin had said it would be like this, when the spring came—grey and wet and drear; and then summer on the fellfield would be one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

Thorin would never have noticed—not the change of seasons, unless it was in relation to the looming deadline to reach the Lonely Mountain by Durin’s Day; and not the life of the mountain, the plants and animals which also made it their home.

Thorin would never have said please, either. He remembered how surprised Ori had been when Dáin had. 

Dáin had spoken to him of his admiration for Thorin, and the ways he looked up to him, but he had disagreed with him, too. Dáin’s view of Thorin was not hero worship, but a clear-eyed understanding of that Dwarf, strengths and flaws alike.

He wasn’t Thorin; but Dáin was a good Dwarf and a good king. Bilbo _could_ see him for who he was—he had, only he hadn’t paid attention to it in his grief. And it was not just to take out his anger and sorrow over Thorin’s death on Dáin simply because he was king now. Dáin had not caused Thorin’s death. If he could have, he would have prevented it—he believed Dáin would have spent his life in defence of his cousin’s if he could have.

And Dáin’s relationship with his son… Oh, the pain in Dáin’s voice when he spoke of his son’s anger towards him, and his resignation when he said Dwarves held grudges.

Bilbo had seen that in him, too—his resignation to other Dwarves’ resentment. When Dáin had come to the Durins’ crypt in the evenings, and Stonehelm had always left, barely acknowledging him…the look in his eyes was always a pained acceptance. If anything could, that reaction made Bilbo regret that he couldn’t look on Dáin with love. It was heart-breaking to think anyone must face the world expecting everyone to always compare him to another; and more, expect he would always be found lacking, no matter how competent and worthy he might be.

_Wait._

_When he had come to the Durins’ crypt sometimes in the evenings, and Stonehelm had always left, barely acknowledging him—the look in his eyes was always a pained acceptance._

What had Stonehelm said? Bilbo had asked, “ _Have you come to live in Erebor, then_?”, and Stonehelm had frowned and said, “ _Yes. Adad has to, of course; and he won’t leave me behind. I’m an adult, but try telling Adad that_.” And later, “ _I wanted to go with them. Adad didn’t tell me what they did until it was too late for me to join. He said Thorin might be so careless with his heirs but he would not be so with his son. I’m still furious with him about it_.”

_Valar_ , Bilbo thought. _Stonehelm is Dáin’s son, isn’t he? Thorin III_.

_Even his son resents him on Thorin’s behalf. His wife is dead… He has no one. No one who sees him and doesn’t think of Thorin._

Bilbo still didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t help it if he thought of Thorin every day. Everything in Erebor reminded Bilbo of Thorin, including the Dwarf who had taken his place. And he couldn’t force love for another to grow in his heart while it still belonged to Thorin. He wouldn’t want to even if he could.

But his anger towards Dáin had begun to fade under the weight of his pity. He suspected Dáin would hate to be pitied, so he wouldn’t tell him; but he did—he pitied the king under the mountain; and he pitied himself, who was admired by a good Dwarf, but didn’t care to let go of a dead one. 

And he could do this much: he would do his best to see Dáin for himself, without comparing him to Thorin.

It was a sombre and penitent Hobbit who re-entered the mountain.

***

Having already walked the mountainside before lunch, he was at a bit of a loss for how to occupy himself that afternoon. It had been three weeks since he had last helped the ‘Ri brothers clear the mountain’s residences; he wasn’t sure where to find them working. He felt guilty but relieved that he wouldn’t have to resume that burden yet.

But he must do _something_.

It had been as long since he had been to the library. He would go there, and he would spend a quiet afternoon repairing manuscripts. It would be a blessing, an afternoon spent in the quiet library, no one there but him and nothing to keep him company but Erebor’s grand collection.

He was not alone for long. Shortly before teatime, Laerorn found him.

“You have been in Erebor’s Treasury,” he said, without even a word of greeting first.

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo said pointedly. He waited for Laerorn’s embarrassed, “Yes, of course. Good afternoon,” before continuing. “I have. It was, after all, the basis from which Smaug created his horde.” He tilted his head in thought. “Would you like for me to describe it, or write some sort of testimonial that you could take back to King Thranduil? If the Dwarves won’t allow you to see it, there would still be something you can give him.”

“Thank you for your thoughtful offer,” Laerorn said. “I fear our king will accept only an Elf’s account.”

“That’s a shame,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t seem the Dwarves will be moved. I can’t say I understand it; but I’m not a Dwarf, after all.” He returned his attention to the parchment he was restoring. 

After a few minutes, he realised that Laerorn hadn’t left. He looked up.

“Will you show me? And one other? Aerandir, most likely,” the Elf asked.

Bilbo stilled.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“Fair or not, I ask it of you,” Laerorn said. “We will swear any oath you like—regarding keeping its location secret, or leaving it undisturbed; whatever oath you ask. But I cannot go back to my king to tell him that the Dwarves can’t find the white gems without knowing the likelihood of its truth.”

Bilbo sighed. “You can’t use the acorn analogy? I rather liked it.”

“It was well thought of,” Laerorn said with a smile. “King Thranduil has little use for such.”

Bilbo bit his lip and looked down at his hands. The Dwarves’ unwillingness to show the Elves the Treasury seemed stupid to him, but showing the Elves himself when he knew his friends didn’t want them to see it…that felt like betrayal.

He’d done enough of that, he believed.

But it was such a _stupid_ thing, when they might convince the Elves at last…

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Go away and I’ll think about it. At dinner I’ll tell you what I decide.”

Laerorn bowed his head and left. Bilbo frowned at the partially recovered parchment. _Bother Dwarves and Elves alike_ , he thought. _Why must they always ask the impossible?_

He set to work on the parchment again, willing his mind to turn away from Laerorn’s request…but he feared he already knew what he would do.

When Laerorn approached him after dinner, Aerandir was with him.

“If I do this, you will swear these things,” Bilbo told them. “You will reveal neither the location of the Treasury nor anything about how to find it to anyone, not even your king. You will not take anything. I don’t care if the white gems lay at your feet. You won’t even _touch_ anything in there. And if you’re caught, you won’t say anything about how you came to find it. You needn’t lie to protect me, only—don’t say a thing. The Dwarves may suspect my involvement, but I’d like to try to avoid the resulting argument if possible. And finally, you won’t tell Thranduil I helped you.”

Laerorn and Aerandir swore accordingly, Laerorn by the roots of the great trees of the woods, and Aerandir on his honour; and Bilbo led them down into the mountain. When they neared the Treasury, Bilbo held them back a moment.

“I won’t go farther,” he said. “I’m sure there will be guards, and I don’t have any advice as to how to avoid their notice: only _do_ avoid their notice if you can. Your path is down these stairs, then follow the hall to your left. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” Laerorn said. 

“I won’t do this again,” Bilbo said. “I don’t know what else it might be. But if the Dwarves deny you something else—I’m not going to help you against their wishes.”

Laerorn nodded. He and Aerandir descended the stairs. Once they were out of sight, Bilbo put on his ring and followed.

The Elves were skilled at moving quietly and carefully, and they didn’t speak to each other as they made their way to the Treasury. If Bilbo had had to follow them by ear, he would have had a hard time of it. When they reached the guards, Laerorn signalled Aerandir to stop in the partial cover of a pillar. They waited there for a long time, observing the guards, before retreating to confer. After a few minutes’ conversation, they returned to their previous post. Laerorn stayed there while Aerandir boldly continued down the hall. The guards challenged him as soon as they saw him, and Aerandir made an elaborate sham of an attempt to escape them before allowing the guards to escort him away. It seemed luck was with the Elves, for the Dwarf guards marched him down a side passage that led away from the place where Laerorn hid.

As soon as Aerandir and the guards were out of sight, Laerorn dashed to the vaulted entrance to the Treasury. Bilbo followed. Laerorn stood staring at the immense scope of Erebor’s Treasury/Smaug’s horde. He had stopped when the interior first came into view and hesitantly continued a few steps further in after that shocked pause.

After a minute, he left. Bilbo supposed he had seen enough. He debated with himself about the ethics of what he was about to do. The Elves were guests in Erebor, and Bilbo had stood as one of their hosts. That meant something to a Hobbit. But in showing the Elves the Treasury, he had gone against the Dwarves’ express wishes. He’d make it work for his friends if he could. He followed Laerorn as he returned to the Elves’ quarters and slipped through the door behind him.

The other Elves must have been nervous, for all three waited by the door, and they hopped to attention when Laerorn entered.

“Aerandir?” one of the Elves asked.

“A distraction was necessary,” Laerorn replied. “He drew off the guards. He will claim he became lost in the city and didn’t know he approached a sensitive location. Maybe they’ll believe him; maybe not. I think the worst they can do is eject him from the mountain—in which case we will go with him. I’m sick of this stone; I want to be back among the trees.”

“But the talks—“ another Elf said.

“Maybe in one or two hundred years the Dwarves will be done sorting the Dragon’s horde,” Laerorn said. “Then they might begin to organise their own gold. The Hobbit was right. The state the Treasury is in—it is an impossible task we have asked of them.”

“Is it really so vast?” one of the Elves asked.

“If I had not seen it with my own eyes…” Laerorn’s voice trailed off. “The Hobbit’s description of the halls of our home filled to the brim with nuts doesn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.”

“The greed of Dwarves,” an Elf muttered.

_As it’s the King of the Wood Elves’ greed that makes all this necessary, that’s hardly fair_ , Bilbo thought. He settled into a comfortable spot against the wall, out of the way but near the door. The Elves returned to their waiting.

At last Aerandir was returned under escort. Balin was with him, and Bilbo cringed.

“We’ll leave a guide or two at the door,” Balin told Aerandir dryly. “So if you feel the need to stretch your legs, one of them can accompany you, to help you find your way.”

Aerandir bowed, and Balin left. Immediately Aerandir turned to Laerorn.

“Hopeless,” Laerorn said. “They speak the truth. It’s worse than I could ever have imagined.”

Aerandir huffed.

“I’ll be happy to go,” one of the other Elves said. “I didn’t think it would take this long, and I too tire of stone all around.”

Laerorn smiled fondly at him. “We’ll all be glad to go home, I think; though I dislike giving our king such news. But we have done what we could; and if nothing else, we have learnt much about Dáin Ironfoot.”

“There is one more thing to try,” Aerandir said.

“What do you think can be done?” Laerorn asked in exasperation. “You didn’t see it, Aerandir; I did. It is an impossible task.”

“Dáin needs motivation,” Aerandir replied.

“What Dáin needs is a thousand Dwarves with nothing else to do for the next hundred years,” Laerorn said. “He’s no slug-a-bed. Leave it. We’ll depart for home tomorrow at first light. Be ready.”

Bilbo waited until the Elves had dispersed to prepare for their departure on the morn, then slipped out of their quarters. He needed to think. What had Aerandir meant, ‘Dáin needed motivation’? Didn’t he think the Dwarves wanted peace with the Wood Elves? It was too bad Aerandir hadn’t been the one to see the Treasury. He might understand the impossible nature of Thranduil’s request.

So Bilbo was distracted when he met Stonehelm at the tombs that evening, pondering the meaning of Aerandir’s mysterious statement and the Elves’ perspective on their failed mission. Did Aerandir think Dáin deceived the Elves in some way, and must be convinced to be honest with them? Dwarf and Elf alike had shown a lack of trust in the other—but Bilbo had thought it was not that they believed the other party lied, but that they weren’t completely open with each other. Well enough, each had some justification for believing that. They hadn’t been.

Stonehelm didn’t question his distraction, only raised a hand in greeting. They sat together by Kíli’s tomb in silence for a time until Bilbo remembered he had a question for Stonehelm.

“Is Dáin your father?” he asked.

“Yes,” Stonehelm said. “I thought you knew that. Everybody knows.”

“No,” Bilbo said. “Dwarves may know such things automatically, but Hobbits don’t have the same skill; we must be told. I didn’t realise until today, when I put together something you had said with something your father told me.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. It really wasn’t any of his business… “I believe he deeply regrets your estrangement.”

Stonehelm snorted. “Good.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Bilbo said. “Stone heads in stone helmets.” He stood. “Good night. This has been a long day for me. I will see you again tomorrow evening.”

“Good night,” Stonehelm replied. “Thank you for your thoughts, Bilbo. But Adad and I—he treated me like a child, and he showed he didn’t respect or trust me. I can’t forgive that so easily.”

“Stone heads in stone helmets,” Bilbo muttered once more, but he nodded in acceptance and raised his hand in farewell as he left.

He was surprised to find Aerandir and another of the Elves outside the vaulted entrance to the Durins’ crypt.

“Good evening,” Bilbo said. “I can’t say I expected any of you here at the tombs.”

“We are here for you,” Aerandir said. He nodded to the other Elf, who quickly moved behind Bilbo. Before Bilbo could react, the Elf had his head locked under his arm and a blade to his neck.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked in disbelief.

“I apologise for this rough treatment,” Aerandir said. “The king under the mountain needs some spur set to his search for the white gems.”

“Motivation!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I tell you he’s doing everything he can!”

“I have watched for decades as my king’s mood has grown darker and darker,” Aerandir said. “If those jewels will bring him joy, I will see that he gets them, whatever I must do.”

“But this is pointless!” Bilbo said. “A knife to my throat won’t change the state of Erebor’s Treasury!”

“Bilbo?” Stonehelm called from within the tomb.

_No. Oh, no._ “I’m fine,” Bilbo called. “Having a discussion with some of the Elves.” He glared at Aerandir. “We’ll go away so we don’t disturb you.”

Unfortunately, Stonehelm chose that moment to appear in the archway. The expression on his face was suspicious and his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

“Ah, careful,” Aerandir warned him as the Elf holding Bilbo jerked him upright so Stonehelm could clearly see the blade at his neck. “If you value the Hobbit’s life, you’ll take your hand off that hilt—slowly, now.”

Stonehelm glared but did as Aerandir directed.

“Now remove your sword—keep it sheathed,” the Elf said. “Keep your hands where I can see them and move slowly and carefully. The Hobbit will be dead before you can draw, so don’t try it.”

“No,” Stonehelm said. “Let Bilbo go, and I’ll do what you ask; but not while there’s a knife to my friend’s throat.”

Bilbo felt a slight pressure from the knife and the tickle of blood rolling down his neck. He tried to suppress his trembling. Dangerous, deadly in battle—that he had known of Elves. He had never thought them capable of this sort of villainy.

“Disarm,” Aerandir said. “Then strip off your armour.”

Stonehelm glared furiously, but did as Aerandir commanded.

“Good,” the Elf said when he was done. “Now come. Walk in front of us—slowly, towards the Gates.”

“Do you really want to encumber yourself more?” Bilbo asked. “Tie him up if you must, but leave him here.”

“I don’t think so,” Aerandir said. “I overheard your conversation. Two hostages is better than one.” He stepped up behind Stonehelm, his own knife at Stonehelm’s unprotected back, directly below his ribcage. “And this will have the added advantage of ensuring your good behaviour too. Be warned: your companion’s health is dependent on your cooperation.”

Stonehelm burst forth in a string of Khuzdul. Aerandir only laughed.

“Bind the Hobbit’s arms to his body,” he told the other Elf. “Good. Now a noose around his neck, and give me the rope.” The Elf worked a sliding knot at one end of a rope and fit the loop snugly against Bilbo’s throat before placing the tail of that rope in Aerandir’s hand. “Go get the others and meet us at the Gates.” He spoke to Stonehelm next. “Move.” When Stonehelm didn’t budge, he jerked on the rope around Bilbo’s neck, forcing him to stumble forward and struggle to breathe through the suddenly too tight noose.

“No!” Stonehelm exclaimed as he began to walk. “I’m moving; I’m moving!”

“You see,” Aerandir said. “Dwarves aren’t so stubborn after all; it is merely a question of finding the right prod.”

“Do stop gloating,” Bilbo said, panting. “It’s most unattractive.”

Aerandir laughed. “Come. We have far to travel tonight.”

The few Dwarves they encountered on the way to the Gates were held in place by the blade at Stonehelm’s back. Some ran away at the sight—to tell Dáin, Bilbo assumed.

The rest of the Elves were waiting at the Gates. The Elf who had helped Aerandir stepped forward to take the rope from Aerandir, and once again Bilbo had a blade to his neck. _The noose and knife both are a bit much_ , Bilbo thought. But perhaps this wouldn’t work the way Aerandir hoped. Bilbo had hoped the Elf wouldn’t be able to threaten the guards into opening the doors; but when they hesitated, he drew another knife and brought it to Stonehelm’s neck.

“Try me,” he said. “Do you think I care who the next king under the mountain will be?”

“Aerandir,” Laerorn said. “This is folly. Let them go.”

Aerandir ignored him. He watched the guards open the Gates and pushed the hostages through as soon as they were wide enough.

“Go get the horses,” he told two of the Elves, and they dashed away. The Dwarf guards and remaining Elves faced each other in a tense stand-off, Bilbo and Stonehelm trapped between them, while they waited for the two to return with the horses. Before they did, Dáin arrived with a small contingent of warriors at his back, Balin and Dwalin among them.

“Unless you want war between our peoples, you will release them,” he growled.

“I don’t think so,” Aerandir replied. “If you make one move towards war, these two will be the first casualties.”

Dáin stepped forward.

“Show him,” Aerandir said, and Bilbo felt the point of the knife at his throat skim up to his eye. He swallowed tightly and gasped for air, his breath suddenly short. Nor could he control his frantic blinking against the tip of the knife so close to his eye or cease trying to pull away from the knife, though the Elf held him still with ease. Dáin stopped short and raised his hands, palms open in surrender.

“Yes, they’re very pretty eyes, aren’t they?” Aerandir laughed. “These two will come with us, our guests in the Woodland Realm; and we will release them when King Thranduil holds the white gems. I swear it on my honour. I would hurry if I were you, though—they will live as long as you do not threaten the Wood Elves; but if you take too long to bring my king what he wants, you may not get them back in the condition they left in.”

“As if your honour were worth a—“ Stonehelm spat before letting loose a stream of Khuzdul. _It truly was the best language for insulting someone_ , Bilbo thought. _Whatever it was he said, it sounded terrible._

“I tell you I have never even seen these white gems,” Dáin said. “I don’t have any idea what they look like. I have no idea where they are. You say ‘hurry’ as if we have dawdled—I can hurry this search about as much as I can hurry the spring! As for hurting them: think twice on it, Elf—I will stop at nothing should either of them be harmed. I will raze the Mirkwood to the ground if it takes every Dwarf under the mountain; and _your_ eyes will be the _last_ thing I take from you, so that you see every bit of what this will bring down on your people.”

“Careful, Dwarf,” Aerandir said. “They can die quickly, or they can die slowly. I don’t know about the Hobbit, but I hear Dwarves are a sturdy folk.”

“Enough, Aerandir,” Laerorn said. “They will be safe,” he told Dáin. “I swear to you I didn’t know of this plan, and I have no power now. But I will watch over them until you are able to deliver the gems.”

“You don’t need us both,” Stonehelm said. “Bilbo should not be trapped between Dwarf and Elf like this. Take me if you won’t be dissuaded, but let Bilbo go.”

“I don’t trust you not to attempt escape if you are not concerned with the Hobbit’s fate,” Aerandir replied. “You will both come.”

The Elves who had gone for the horses returned with their mounts then. Bilbo had hoped there might be an opportunity for escape as they mounted; but the Elves were careful to have one or both of their hostages under the blade until all were mounted, and they rode away together. Bilbo tried to see what Erebor’s Dwarves were doing, but he couldn’t see around the Elf holding him captive.

He didn’t know what Dáin would do, but he didn’t believe the king would meekly allow his son and heir to be taken like this—and Dáin was too honourable to leave Bilbo in danger. But he gave up looking and faced forward again, though he was blind in the dark.

_More dangerous and less wise indeed_ , he thought. _Aerandir is a fool if he thinks this won’t end in war eventually. Stonehelm will be longer lived, but I’m likely to die in captivity before the Dwarves find those thrice-bedamned gems. And Dáin may not have hated Thranduil the way Thorin did before, but this is hardly going to endear them to each other._ “Confusticate you, Aerandir,” he said aloud. “This is the _stupidest_ idea. I hope Thranduil thrashes you for it.”

“Unlikely,” Aerandir said. “It was the king’s suggestion should the Dwarves not prove reasonable.”

_Oh! That slug! His heart must be as black as his face is fair_ , Bilbo thought. _I hope termites gnaw his Halls to dusty bits._ He fumed in silence after that. Stonehelm cursed the Elves roundly in Khuzdul (at least, that was what Bilbo expected he did; perhaps he recited his times tables), but eventually he subsided as well.

It seemed Bilbo was returning to the Woodland Realm, this time as one of the prisoners. He didn’t intend to let that stop him. He’d escaped Thranduil’s Halls before, and he’d do it again—and this time he only had one Dwarf to rescue instead of thirteen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, as this chapter strays slightly from BOTFA canon--don't expect everything in this story to fit movie canon!

***

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure what he’d expected when they reached the Woodland Realm, but it wasn’t to be taken down to a prison cell, shoved in, and left there without even a glimpse of Thranduil or much of anyone except a few guards. He wasn’t sure why he expected Thranduil would want to see them simply because he had spoken to Thorin when the Company was captured.  He supposed to the king of the Wood Elves, they were mere bargaining chips in this struggle between him and Dáin.  No one bothered to tell the pawns what was happening.

 

“Bilbo?” Stonehelm called to him after the Elves had gone away.

 

“Here,” Bilbo said with a sigh.  “I wish they had at least put us together.”

 

“These cells aren’t very big,” Stonehelm said.  “We’d be stumbling all over each other.”

 

“Some are bigger than others, I believe,” Bilbo said.  “I only glimpsed them when the Company was here, but it seemed so to me.  But at least we can talk to each other.”

 

“Small blessings,” Stonehelm said.

 

Bilbo tried to keep Stonehelm’s (and his) spirits up with his chatter, but he could only maintain it for so long.  Eventually he fell silent and his thoughts turned to how he might be able to escape his cell.  He suspected it wouldn’t be so easy to steal the keys this time, and that the Elves would be watching the river too closely for that to be a way out for them. But while his path this time might not be so obvious, it was far too early to give up.  He mulled over possibilities—most of which depended on a fair bit of luck coming his way—and dozed off for a time; and when he woke the Elven Captain of the Guard sat outside his cell, watching him through the bars.

 

She looked quite different to him.  Some of that was because she didn’t appear to be armed from the tips of her ears to her toes and she wasn’t wearing her practical warrior’s garb. Instead she wore a simple fawn-coloured gown; and Bilbo didn’t think she carried so much as a pin, much less her bow and many knives.  Her loose hair was as vibrant as it had ever been.  She was fair, of course; but she seemed paler than before; and her eyes—her eyes were too bright.

 

“Hello?” he said.

 

“He was in this cell,” she said.

 

“Pardon?” Bilbo said.  “Who was, my lady?”

 

“Kíli,” she said.  “And I am not a lady, just Tauriel.”  She sighed. There was something in that sigh…Bilbo didn’t know.  It was the last leaves of autumn falling, perhaps; or butterfly wings trembling before a stiff wind.

 

“Oh,” he said.  “I didn’t remember that.”

 

“Were you there, when he died?” she asked.  “Did you see it?”

 

“No,” Bilbo said.  “I saw him earlier in the battle, when Fíli was struck down; but at some point a rock struck my head, and I didn’t wake until the battle was over.  I suppose I’m lucky I wasn’t killed myself.”

 

“I did not see it either,” she said.  “Only in the aftermath did I see him, and he was already being carried away by his companions.  I could not approach.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “It’s a shame it seems so hard for Elves and Dwarves to be friends.  I hadn’t realised you and Kíli had managed it so quickly, though Bofur did tell me how you healed him.”

 

“Friends,” she said.  “I suppose we might have been friends at that.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo said.  “Weren’t you?  I thought…and you were asking about him…”

 

“We were two stars:  our lights shining bright, reaching for each other…but always with a great distance between us,” she said.  “We were potential only—unsatisfied hope, unfulfilled longing.  Yet it seems that was enough for me.”

 

Bilbo tilted his head and frowned at her.  He had not known many Elves, but she seemed especially strange to him.  Certainly her words were strange.  But her feelings for Kíli seemed strong and true, and Bilbo had a share in that loss.

 

“Would you like me to tell you how he is laid to rest?” he asked.

 

She sat forward, suddenly alert.

 

“I would like that very much,” she said.  “Is it very different from an Elf’s grave?”

 

“I don’t know what you Elves do with your dead,” Bilbo said. “But the Dwarves say they ‘return to the stone’ when they die, and I suppose it is a good description. He is laid out in a crypt deep within the mountain, he and his brother flanking their uncle. He is—“ Bilbo’s voice broke. “They are given much honour. He lays in a stone coffin, on which a good likeness of him is carved—quite a good likeness.  The Dwarven artisans are very skilled.”

 

“You said you didn’t like it,” Stonehelm said from his cell. “Kíli’s in particular.”

 

“What I _said_ ,” Bilbo replied, “was that Kíli’s vibrancy couldn’t be captured in stone.  I never said that it didn’t look like him.”

 

“Humph,” Stonehelm huffed.

 

“Sometimes Elven artisans create a statue by carving wood until the figure emerges from inside,” Tauriel said.  “But it is not a portrait; the sculpture already exists inside the wood and has only to be set free.  Such a piece often seems to hold a life of its own.”

 

“That’s a lovely idea,” Bilbo said.  “I should like to see such a statue someday.”  He smiled wryly.  “I suspect that day won’t be anytime soon.”

 

The corner of Tauriel’s lip curved up for a moment.

 

“What do Elves do with their dead?” Stonehelm asked.  Tauriel looked angry for a brief moment; but perhaps she realised that Stonehelm meant no offence, for she subsided quickly enough.

 

“We place those who have fallen in battle or from some other injury in the earth,” she said.  “In gardens, often, but sometimes in a natural place.  It is said that the spirit of the dead will guide the one whose honour it is to choose their resting place.  We may build a cairn, but the earth always envelops the grave in time. Often the site becomes known for its great beauty.  Most, of course, choose to go to the West when they grow weary of this world.” She hesitated for a moment.  “And some few fade.”

 

“Fade?” Bilbo asked.

 

“Some of us…our connection to this world, our appreciation of its beauty—in some of us that is severed,” she said.  “In mourning a lost love, or because of great suffering.  Then, we fade:  withering away, becoming a pale shadow of who we were, until finally we dissolve into the dust of our broken hearts.”

 

“My lady,” Bilbo said, but nothing he could think of to say seemed wholly inadequate.

 

“I am a mere Silvan Elf,” she said.  “I carry no rank beyond that of a simple Captain of the Guard—and now I am no longer that, either.”

 

“Sometimes nobility has no relationship to one’s bloodline,” Bilbo said. “My lady.”

 

She smiled wanly at him and remained with him a while longer, until that pale smile had long faded.  But eventually she sighed and stood and walked away.

 

“Does she mean that she is fading?” Stonehelm asked.

 

“I think so,” Bilbo said.

 

“Because she mourns for Kíli?” he asked.  “She can barely have known him.”

 

“Sometimes a short time is enough,” Bilbo replied.  “It does seem a hard thing, though.  An Elf—she might live forever unless she died in battle, but she bleeds out from this invisible wound.”

 

A meal arrived later, and then another after a time, and then the halls fell quiet—Bilbo assumed that meant it was nighttime.  He slept as well as he could on the hard floor of his cell, and when he woke, Tauriel was there again.

 

“Will you tell me of your time with him?” she asked.  “Tell me anything—stories of your journey, or tales he may have shared with you of his home—anything.”

 

“Of course, my lady,” he said.  He paused to think.  “On the evening I first met Kíli, he and his brother—I believe you knew Fíli as well? They arrived at my door together. You must understand, I had no warning that I would have any guests at all that evening, much less thirteen Dwarves I had never met before, and a wizard I remembered primarily for the fireworks he made for my grandfather’s birthday party…”

 

It was the first time he had told this story to anyone; it brought him a melancholy sort of joy to share it with her and Stonehelm, listening from his own cell.  All three of them had loved Kíli, each in their own way.  It was healing, to tell them about the Kíli he had known.  And Stonehelm made it better yet, for when Bilbo had finished his tale, he began one of his own.

 

“The first time I saw Kíli and Fíli, they had come with Thorin to the Iron Hills to meet with _Adad_ —I don’t remember what it was about.  But I was thirty-seven, so they must have been thirty-nine and forty-four.  They seemed terribly worldly to me, though now I know that was the first time they had left the Ered Luin.  Kíli told me ridiculous tales about the Orcs they’d encountered on the journey—hordes and hordes of them that he’d single-handedly defeated.  I listened in awe, believing every word; and when Kíli was done, Fíli would catch my attention.  He’d roll his eyes and shake his head ‘no;’ and I’d look back at Kíli, shocked that he should lie about it.”  He chuckled.  “Kíli simply said, ‘but I would have, and this—this did happen—‘ and he was off on another story.”

 

When Stonehelm was done, Tauriel told them of her first meeting with Kíli, fighting against the giant spiders in the Mirkwood.  Bilbo found it—it didn’t erase his grief; but it soothed it somehow, to share these stories with each other.  He wished he had done this with the Company before. He hoped he might yet have the chance to do so.

 

But that was the end of their reminiscences for the time being, for while Tauriel had been relating her story, the Elves’ prince had arrived.  He didn’t interrupt her, but when she was done he intervened before Bilbo or Stonehelm could begin another tale.

 

“Come, Tauriel,” he said.  “You must eat, and then perhaps you will walk in the woods with me.  You have not left these walls in some time.” Tauriel grimaced at Bilbo, who had to smother a responding laugh; but she went with the prince without protest.

 

“I’d like to hear more,” Stonehelm said when they were gone.

 

“I too,” Bilbo answered.  “But somehow I feel we should wait for Tauriel.”

 

“I wouldn’t have thought it possible, that an Elf should like a Dwarf the way she does,” Stonehelm said.

 

“Balin spoke of a pair of friends, a Dwarf and an Elf, who created one set of the doors to Moria together,” Bilbo said.

 

“Narvi and Celebrimbor,” Stonehelm said.  “But that’s always been just a story to me.  It never seemed like it could be real until now.”

 

“Somehow ‘like’ seems inadequate to describe the way she feels,” Bilbo said.

 

“I guess,” Stonehelm replied.  “Maybe the Iron Hills are provincial that way.  I can’t picture it.”

 

“You know that is how I felt about Thorin,” Bilbo said.

 

“You’re different,” Stonehelm said.  “Don’t know why, but it’s true.”

 

“I am choosing to take that as a compliment,” Bilbo said.

 

“Does show good taste on both your parts,” Stonehelm said.  “It’s the other way ‘round that’s hard to imagine.”

 

“Many thanks,” Bilbo said.  “ _That_ is hard to find flattering.”

 

“I guess there’s lots more to this world than I ever knew,” Stonehelm said. “And you shouldn’t feel bad; you’re quite loveable.”

 

“Also an adequate description of a puppy,” Bilbo replied.  “But thank you again.”

 

Tauriel came to sit with them again and again during their days of captivity. Her fading—if that was what it was—seemed slow, but it did inexorably progress.  Her eyes remained bright, but it was the shine of fever; and though her body didn’t look different and she didn’t complain, she seemed to have lost much of her strength.  It was dispiriting to see, but Bilbo was at a loss for what he might do to help her.  The Elf prince—Bilbo had learnt his name was Legolas—seemed equally despairing and angry. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he were angrier with Tauriel or with Dwarves in general and Kíli in particular. It very much reminded Bilbo of his own anger at Thorin; but Legolas’ love for Tauriel was also tainted by his jealousy of Kíli, which seemed to have spread to Bilbo and Stonehelm. The guards’ treatment of them had worsened, and Bilbo thought it could be traced to Legolas. They were not starved, but that was about all Bilbo could say about the Elves’ care for them.

 

Finally Bilbo was fed up.  When next Legolas came to pull Tauriel away from them, he spoke.

 

“Your Highness,” he said.  “Would you speak to the guards on our behalf?  The food is bad enough, but after three weeks what I’d really like is a bath—and for a Hobbit, that’s saying something.”

 

“Mahal, _yes_ ,” Stonehelm said.  “If only to get out of this cell for fifteen minutes!”

 

Legolas’ face was a picture:  Bilbo was sure he wanted to deny their request, but knew Tauriel would disapprove if he did.

 

“I’ll tell the guards,” he said.  “Now, Tauriel, will you come?”

 

“When the guards come to take us to bathe, you should go first,” Bilbo told Stonehelm when he was sure they couldn’t be overheard.

 

“Why does it matter?” Stonehelm asked.

 

“Let’s just say: if I am successful, I don’t think they’ll let you out,” he replied.

 

“What are you trying, Bilbo?” Stonehelm asked.  “Don’t take a risk you can’t afford.”

 

“My risk will be minimal,” he said.  “I’m more worried that they’ll retaliate against you.”

 

“Nay,” Stonehelm said.  “I’ll be fine.  Just be sure it’ll work before you try whatever it is.”

 

“Very well,” he said.  “Even if it doesn’t work, at least we’ll be clean again.”

 

They lapsed into silence once more.

 

“How long do you think it will take _Adad_ to find these gems Thranduil wants?” Stonehelm asked.

 

“Have you never been to the Treasury?” Bilbo asked.

 

“No,” he replied.  “I was too angry—and guilty.”

 

“We have a better chance of befriending Legolas than of anyone finding the white gems within the next half a century,” Bilbo said.  “Or perhaps of you forgiving your father in the same time period.”

 

Stonehelm winced.  “That good.”

 

“That good,” Bilbo answered.

 

When the guards came to take them to bathe, it chanced that the situation was better than Bilbo had hoped, for they took him and Stonehelm together. They weren’t granted the luxury of a proper bath, only a shallow spot in the river; but that would be better for his purposes.  The guards gave each of them a rough cloth and a bar of soap and shoved them into the river, their clothes still on.

 

That was less lucky; but Bilbo intended to escape none the less, and it did offer an opportunity…  He washed his body—and clothes, since they were wet already—while he covertly examined the riverbank.  Then he washed his hair; and when he ducked under the green water to rinse, instead of surfacing he slipped his ring on and swam downstream a ways, to a shadowed nook where he thought it might be easy to slip out of the river without being noticed.

 

As he slowly climbed onto the stony river bank, he watched the Elven guards. They seemed to have noticed his disappearance but not quite believe it possible.  The resulting clamour was quite gratifying, and soothed a bit of the resentment he had felt over the Elves’ shoddy treatment. Stonehelm did his best to make life difficult for the guards by refusing to come out of the river, until two of the guards were forced to enter the water themselves to force him out—and then the other two as well, as Stonehelm proved hard to restrain. Bilbo took advantage of that distraction to scamper up the rough rock walls to a small opening he had observed earlier.  It seemed to be a refuse chute from the kitchen, given the various vegetable and fruit trimmings that were piled up in a grated area below.  He looked back, but the guards had only just managed to subdue Stonehelm and hadn’t yet begun to search for him.

 

Bilbo carefully leant away from the rock to look up the narrow chute.  There was little he could use as support for his hands and feet, but the chute was tight enough he could climb it like a chimney sweep, his back against one wall and his feet against the other. There was a protrusion at the bottom of the chute he might be able to catch and pull himself up on. He’d only have the one chance. His arms weren’t strong enough to try twice.

And if he _could_ catch the edge of the chute, and _could_ pull himself far enough up to brace himself against the sides…it was a long way to climb.

_At least if I fall, I’ll have a soft landing; though the bath will have been wasted._ He took a deep breath, had a last look behind him, and leapt for it.

 

He’d experienced more disgusting things in his life than trying to inch his way up this refuse chute, but Bilbo had been used as a troll’s handkerchief. The bar to exceed that was rather high.  Still, aside from rubbing up against the occasional rotting vegetable trimming caught on the bits that sometimes protruded from the walls of the chute…

 

The scratches on his back from the rough hewn rock of the walls.

 

The clamminess of his wet clothes.

 

The way he couldn’t stop shivering.

 

The strain on his legs from holding himself tight against the wall so he didn’t fall.

 

Aside from all that, it wasn’t bad.

 

And it wouldn’t be too much further now.  He estimated it was ten more feet to the top of the chute and freedom.  The only problem that remained was:  it seemed to be time to prepare dinner.  The sound of voices drifted down to him from above, and annoying bits of refuse were falling down onto him—carrot peelings, potato skins, and— _ugh._ Someone was making strawberry jam. He quite liked strawberries, but he did not care to have bushels of sticky strawberry tops poured on top of him. The juice was sticky; and once it dried, it itched.

 

This went on long enough that his legs began to cramp, and he thought he might have to retreat.  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it without landing in that compost heap.  But at last the voices from above faded and the light dimmed.  Bilbo surmised that the kitchen was empty at last and made his stiff way up the last leg of the chute.

 

He was grateful to be right, and even more grateful to scavenge a hunk of fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, and a pint of small beer; for he was sick of stale bread and gruel.  He even stole two jars of the newly made strawberry jam, still hot from the boil—one for him and one for Stonehelm, if he could manage it.

 

It was a shame about the bath, for he was rather sweatier and quite a bit grimier than he’d been beforehand; but he was free of his cell, and that was worth it. Now to find a place that might serve as a hidey-hole, and let Stonehelm know that he was safe—safe, and _free_.

 

It was almost too easy to find a secret nook where Bilbo thought he could sleep without being found—and even store some items out of sight, if they weren’t too large.  He settled in with his stolen dinner and waited for the Woodland Realm to calm.  He had no way of knowing if the buzzing activity of the guards was normal, but he suspected he was witnessing the search for him as it expanded and expanded and didn’t find him.  He was sticky and itchy and cold and damp, but he was also quite smugly pleased with himself as he watched the Elves scurry about.  _Much luck to you_ , he thought.  _I shall have fun poking this ant hill, shan’t I?_ Exhausted but satisfied, he curled up and slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr much? [salviag.tumblr.com](http://salviag.tumblr.com)


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